Dancing on Dead Feet
by BlindingFirefly
Summary: Clara is 23, single, part Irish, part Choctaw, and a paraplegic. After graduation, she goes to La Push to work in their  medical clinic as a nurse to give back to the community. She has no plans for romance and no patience with idiots. And then came Paul.
1. Flying Inside Your Own Body

So, hi. Here I am, after a two year absence from the world of fanfic. It's been an interesting two years, that's for sure! I've graduated college, been maid of honor at my sister's wedding, had my heart broken into a gajillion pieces, painfully put them back together again, and now I'm entering nursing school. How've you been? (And yes, I promise: eventually, Ivy Tree will be finished. I'm just stuck on that for the moment.)

It's been over a year now since my relationship fell apart, and I'm finally able to write again. This story originally began three years ago. It was about a very kind and sweet girl named Amelia who was imprinted on by Seth.

My love for Seth notwithstanding, I've developed a huge liking for Paul's character. I started to wonder….should I write an imprinting story about Paul? (I kinda pretend that "Breaking Dawn" doesn't exist, so Rachel isn't a huge concern for me.) But then I decided that Paul imprinting on a girl like Amelia was highly improbable, so it needed to stay a Seth centric story. I was perfectly fine with this decision.

Still, I sat down today to jot out a couple of sentences about Amelia. Just to get my feet wet in the whole writing game again. And all of a sudden, this badass, determined, opinionated girl completely took me over. It was like being possessed – I was consumed by her. Before I knew it, I had typed out six pages about this girl named Clara. And I LIKED her. I had always been fond of Amelia, but all of a sudden, I knew that that wasn't the story I wanted to tell. THIS was the story that was bursting to come out of me. And in my time of writing, I've come to learn that when there's a character this hell bound to talk, you'd better just type as fast as you can and go with it. I hope you enjoy the fruits of this wisdom!

This story will probably be shorter than some of my others (unless Clara carries me away again). I'll try to update every other day or so – I want to see where this goes as much as I hope you guys will! Please, leave me reviews and tell me what you think.

Warning: this is NOT a Mary Sue. Not everyone will like her. She is not gorgeous beyond all compare. She is not an Elsie Dinsmore. You may not like all of her opinions, but that certainly won't stop her from saying them, even if she's wrong. Ye be warned.

I'm so glad to be back here! I hope everyone reading this has an awesome day! Review, and you shall find some hot Native guy suddenly look deeply into your eyes and start panting. Trust me on this one.

BlindingFirefly

….

Flying Inside Your Own Body

Your lungs fill and spread themselves,

wings of pink blood, and your bones

empty themselves and become hollow.

When you breathe in you'll lift like a balloon

and your heart is light too and huge,

beating with pure joy, pure helium.

The sun's white winds blow through you,

there's nothing above you,

you see the earth now as an oval jewel,

radiant and sea blue with love.

It's only in dreams you can do this.

Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,

a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;

the sun's a hot copper weight pressing straight

down on the think pink rind of your skull.

It's always the moment just before gunshot.

You try and try to rise but you cannot.

— Margaret Atwood


	2. Ordinary

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. If I did, I would never have written "Breaking Dawn." Don't even get me started on that one…. And I know, KnoxDiver, you don't think it was THAT bad. Just pardon me while I go barf…..

AN: Annnnnnd here's the first chapter! Aren't I doll? Say it with me: "Katie is awesome. Katie is awesome." You get the idea.

Review, please! I want at least five reviews before I post the next chapter! Do it, and thou shalt be richly reward.

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Chapter 1:

Ordinary

_If you are not willing to risk the unusual, you will have to settle for the ordinary. _

_Jim Rohn_

I didn't know what it meant to be ordinary. Who even invented the word to begin with? Say it enough times and it sounds absolutely ridiculous. Seriously, try it: ordinary. Ord. In. Air. Ree. It made me think of a giant gourd in a wind tunnel, not a state of being that nearly every person on the planet was attempting to attain. Seriously, whoever came up with the whole concept of ordinariness was a dumbass. Even Webster couldn't make the thing much clearer. "Ordinary," his dictionary says. "(1): A prelate exercising original jurisdiction over a specified territory or group (2): a clergyman appointed formerly in England to attend condemned criminals or (3): the regular or customary condition or course of things — usually used in the phrase 'out of the ordinary.'"

See? Our whole understanding of the word didn't even make top billing with Webster. It earned a disappointing bronze medal in the sport of stupid. Clergymen in breeches and Quaker Oats hats beat out the whole wimpy ideal with room to spare.

But how could something so nebulous, so undeniably ridiculous, make so many people so insane? I had seen people almost literally turn themselves inside out, just to become ordinary. Or I would see other people fighting tooth and nail to get as far away from the title "ordinary" as possible. You know the ones: they were either the really cool Penelope Garcia and Abby Sciutos of the world, or they were the weird guy at McDonald's that scribbled in a black notebook with suspicious red ink that everyone skirts around while buying their non-fat coffees and Big Macs.

Either way, we were all pretty much screwed.

Me? Ordinariness was so far beyond my grasp that I just waved bye-bye as it zoomed past in a red Corvette driven by James Bond. First, you had to start with my genetics. I was one quarter Native American, Choctaw to be exact, and three quarters Irish. Yeah, I know. "Here, ladies and gentlemen, is an example of DNA soup. Proceed at your own risk." I had red hair, which kinda tips everyone off to the whole Irish bit. My Choctaw side was evident in my dark brown eyes, and in the summer I would tan to a really beautiful golden brown. That was about it. Unless you caught me in July after I'd been to the beach, I looked like just about everyone else in the Southern United States that had Irish backgrounds (which is darn near everybody).

I know what you're thinking. I'm just psychic like that. You're all, "so, you're part Native American? Almost everybody is if you go far enough back. I don't see how you're so out of the ordinary."

Well, first off, I was the first one in my family to get a higher education. We'd always had plenty of food and a nice place to live, but I wanted more than just settling. I got a full academic scholarship and went to the University of Tennessee, majoring in Nursing and minoring in Native American Studies. Even with the scholarship, making all my bills was rough. I was lucky – I got assistance from the state because of my heritage. That was the reason why I'd decided to work at a reservation medical clinic for a while after I graduated. I wanted to move far away from home and make my own life. I wanted to learn more about my Native American side; my family had always been pretty focused on its European roots. My grandmother told me a few of the old tales, like of the Thunderbird and of the Great Turtle, but that was it. I wanted to give back to the Native community, to be a part of it and to help shape it. So, I was voluntarily planning on taking my red headed self up to the rainiest corner in the United States of America to teach at a reservation school where I would quite likely be the only pale face around.

Oh, that, and I was in a wheelchair.

…

I know, I know. People in wheelchairs are all the rage now in this politically correct world. Open any magazine in any state of the US of A, and open it up to an advertisement. There will always, without fail, have a white girl, a black guy, most likely some Asian dude, and some poor kid in a wheelchair pictured. All, I might add, smiling brilliantly. As if they'd all just escaped from the "It's a Small World" ride and were rejoicing over their good fortune. There were also all those oh-so-kind terms to make the whole wheelchair thing more palatable; my personal favorite was "handi-capable." Puh-leeze. I didn't fit into any of the stereotypes that people had about people in my position. There were generally two kinds of categories that I had observed in the media and of the people around me:

The bright, optimistic person that was determined to accept who they were with grace and protest grandly that they were perfectly capable of doing whatever anybody else can do. They are smart, friendly to a fault, independent and (shudder) _chipper._

The embittered, grouchy brand. These are the people that wear black and play Evanescence at all hours and are generally the subjects of those Lifetime movies where an angel comes along and either heals them and or makes them able to accept their situations.

I wasn't terribly bitter. At least, I wasn't bitter about my own situation, anyway. Sure, I tend to get a little snarky when everyone in a wheelchair is lumped into a category: Brave or Bitchy. Come on, that would piss you off, too. But I certainly didn't blame anyone or anything for an accident that had happened when I was six. I was riding a horse. It spooked, I got thrown, and I landed in a wheelchair. It's not like I could even blame myself for that. I had had no control over how my body landed. Besides, I was _six_.

I couldn't even blame the horse. I know I sure jump when I'm watching a movie and some jerk jumps out from behind a corner and scares the living daylights out of me (as you might have already guessed, I am not, shall we say, a huge connoisseur of the horror film genre). If I had been a horse and a snake had taken a snap at me, I would have reared and run my ass off, too. Regardless of the lump of a six year old that I was currently carrying on my back.

I had been so young when I got hurt that it had always just sort of been a part of me. I come with baggage, ladies and gentlemen, in the shape of emerald green wheels. But hey, challenge me to a race and I can beat FloJo to the finish line. I still had full use of my arms, so I was able to do almost everything anyone else could do. I took piano lessons and voice lessons and art (even though I sucked at it), and participated in the local Special Olympics every year. I went on plenty of dates, especially in college, and I'd even gotten to spend a semester in Paris in my junior year. So, I didn't exactly feel cheated. The only thing I wanted to do that I knew I never could would be to dance in a ballet. I'm not a frilly kind of girl, but something within me always kinda softened whenever I saw a ballet.

But to be fair, I wasn't the spunky, chipper kind of handicapped person either. I accepted my limitations (like knowing I would never put on a tulle tutu and pink satin toe shoes and arabesque with some glamorous dance company). And yeah, sometimes that upset me to the point that I had to throw some eggs at a tree. Thankfully, that didn't happen very often or else my mother would really be mad at the grocery bill.

To recap, I'm not ordinary. I don't fit the molds. Who does, really? Ask yourself (and be honest with yourself for once in your life, please), are you ordinary? I hope the answer is no; otherwise, we're living in a huge production of _The Stepford Wives_, and that movie scares the crap out of me.

I'm a libertarian in the land of Republicans, a Presbyterian in a family of Baptists, a paraplegic in a world obsessed with physical perfection, and my name is Clara. (I blame that for my love of ballet; I watch _The Nutcracker_ religiously every Christmas.) When was the last time you met a person named Clara? Never, right? Yeah. That's me.

It stands to reason, then, that the next portion of my life would be far from ordinary. My world was about to make the leap to hyper speed from ordinary to myth.


	3. There's No Yellow Brick Road Here

AN: So, I lied. I'm updating earlier than I thought, and before I had five reviews. So, please reward my kindness with lots of reviews on this chapter!

I love love love love Clara. I can't stop writing her. It's kinda scary… I hope you love reading it almost as much as I love writing it!

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Chapter 2:

There's No Yellow Brick Road Here

_It is for us to pray not for tasks equal to our powers, but for powers equal to our tasks, to go forward with a great desire forever beating at the door of our hearts as we travel toward our distant goal. _

— _Helen Keller_

It had been a long flight, and I was officially exhausted out of my mind. You people think traveling is this huge hassle? Wheelchairs make the whole thing about a thousand percent harder. Add a changeover in Chicago, and things can get hairy really fast. I have to admit, airlines do try to make things easier on us handi-capable folks. They let us board the plane first, so that we can find our seats without some asshole hitting us over the head with his briefcase. Then they provide someone to help you get to your gate if you have a layover, which is good because even though you get to board the plane first at takeoff, you're the last to leave when you land. This can sometimes mean an epic sprint from one end of O'Hare to the other. And if you've never been to O'Hare, you can't begin to understand how huge it is.

So in one day, I had made the journey from Memphis to Chicago to Seattle. My things were supposed to arrive tomorrow in a moving van that had left Tennessee a couple of days ago. The tribal board had been really helpful when I had written them about the open position in their clinic. They assured me that the clinic was fully handicapped accessible (it seemed that they had some folks in wheelchairs already up there. Diabetes was a huge medical issue on their reservation) and that they would find me a small house or an apartment that would suit my needs. They would also send someone to pick me up from the airport in Seattle and drive me the few hours back to La Push. That was a relief; I hadn't relished the idea of paying a taxi to drive me that far.

I was pretty near the end of my patience by the time I finally disembarked from the plane. It seemed to take my fellow passengers forever to gather up their books and crying children and carry-on bags and leave the plane empty enough for the flight attendant to get me my wheelchair from the storage hold and help me into it. (That's another major pet peeve with me. I don't like being touched by strangers. Like, at all. I'm a Southerner, so I'm all about hugs, but I don't want to be touched in a helping way. Just set the wheelchair up next to me and I can get myself into it without any assistance. At the Chicago layover, one poor flight attendant nearly lost an eye after his hand accidentally grazed my butt as I was maneuvering myself into the chair. I know he was just trying to help, but _geez_.) My clothing was wrinkled and I was pretty sure I smelled. I just wanted to get out of this flying sardine tin and find a bed. The prospect of a few hours in the car before I could get to said bed wasn't helping my mood much either.

So you can imagine why I wasn't all that thrilled to finally get through security only to see this hulk of a Native American guy holding up a sign that had "Clara McLeod" scrawled across it. First off, I don't like my name being displayed for the world to see. It's like those people that put the names of their kids all across their cars along with all the information of where they go to school and what sports they play. Haven't those jokers ever heard of identity theft or kidnapping? I'm not paranoid, but I do believe in the good old fashioned notion of common sense. And to add insult to injury, the guy holding up my name for all the blessed world to see was wearing a wife beater. Let me repeat that a little more slowly for you: a wife beater. Not only did I find the whole name more than a little sexist, but in the South, the only people that wear wife beaters are the ones that are looking to pick a fight with the local police department. Let me also say this: it's October, for crying out loud. We're in the Pacific Northwest. I'd never lived here before, but I was fairly certain that it was more than a little nippy outside. This guy wasn't even wearing a shirt with sleeves. I did not have high hopes for his intelligence.

Bracing myself for a long time spent in the company of Cro-Magnon Man, I pushed myself over to him and said (in what I hoped was a fairly pleasant tone), "Hey. I'm Clara. You can put the sign down now."

He grinned – and when I say grinned, I mean _grinned_. You could have played "The Moonlight Sonata" on this guy's teeth. He looked genuinely thrilled to see me. "Hey," he said back, tossing the sign into a trash can. "Nice to meet you. I'm Seth Clearwater; the council sent me to pick you up."

Okay, so he could put together complete sentences. I had always had a bad habit of judging people too quickly. So I smiled back at him, just in case he didn't turn out to be a total moron. "Thanks. I just have the one bag." I jerked my thumb at the messenger bag that was slung across the back of my chair. "The rest of my stuff won't be here until tomorrow."

"Cool. You actually played it smart, then," Seth replied. "I was expecting to have to juggle a trunk and three suitcases right here."

"Nope. I'm not quite that sadistic," I said with an evil smile. "So, can we go now? If I don't have to see another airport for a year, that would be fine by me."

I was impressed when Seth quickly nodded and led the way to the exit. He didn't try to push my chair for me or anything. I just wheeled myself beside him as if I were a regular person, walking along. "So, the council told me to be sure to bring a coat with me. Aren't you going to freeze in just that shirt?" I asked, waving a hand at his wife beater.

Seth grinned that piano-key smile at me again. "Nah. I have a high body temperature. A lot of us in the tribe have it. I'm hardly ever cold."

"Huh," was my brilliant reply, as I worked through the medical implications of that. "That must be handy up here."

"It is." By the time we'd said this, we were outside and working our way across the parking lot towards an old green pickup. "Be careful," Seth warned me. "It rained last night, and there are patches of ice everywhere."

Of course, just then my wheels hit a patch of black ice and I went shooting across the parking lot. "Shit!" I screamed, trying desperately to regain control. Then from out of nowhere, a brown hand grabbed my handle bars and thanks to my seat belt, I stayed in the chair despite the sudden loss of momentum.

I panted, my heart going a mile a minute. "Holy crap," Seth said, coming around to check on me. "You okay, Clara?"

"Yeah, fine," I choked out. "Just felt like joining the Ice Capades for a few minutes."

"I think there are easier ways," Seth said solemnly, "although I think you could definitely give Tara Lipinski a run for her money."

I stopped and looked at him for a second before I burst out in my usual too-loud laughter. Maybe this would all work out after all, if even Cro-Magnon Man had a sense of humor.

…

The drive to La Push ended up being a lot more fun than I would have thought. Seth and I fought for control over the radio until I threatened to roll over his foot with my chair, and then he silently let me fiddle with the knobs so I would know where the good stations were. He ended up approving of most of my choices, although he wrinkled his nose at my classic rock station. "Really? AC/DC? Those guys are ancient!" he complained.

"Not ancient," I corrected sternly. "_Classic_. Hence the very popular phrase 'classic rock.' You don't mess with the best, Clearwater. Does the school system throw out _Beowulf_ just because it's ancient? I think not."

"Do you argue over everything, McLeod?" he said with a roll of his eyes.

I considered the question. "No, not really. Not unless I have a strong opinion about it, anyway."

"Let me rephrase the question. Do you have a strong opinion over everything? And therefore fight over everything?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

He groaned.

As you can tell, Seth was pretty much Clearwater to me by now, and he hadn't called me Clara since I went sliding across the ice. I was firmly McLeod. Nobody had ever addressed me like that before, like I was almost one of the guys. I found myself liking it. I had never been one of those frou-frou kind of girls. I liked chick flicks, but I also loved movies with explosions and blood spurting everywhere. I could also do basic home repairs on my own. I liked working with my hands, and I didn't want to have to ask for help at every turn. I got enough of that already without playing the role of the helpless female. I actually had a bit of hidden genius when it came to the inner workings of most toilets. It was a gruesome talent according to some ignorant souls, but oh, so handy.

Clearwater and I were arguing over the latest news in basketball when we finally passed a small, hand carved sign that read "La Push." I looked around with interest; the landscape was completely opposite from what I was used to. Back home, the entire city would shut down whenever we got so much as an inch of ice. Here, everybody just walked around on it like, "no problem. Let's get a move on."

Things were green back home, too. I mean, Tennessee isn't exactly the desert. But here, everything was _green_. Like, that beautiful emerald green you expect Ireland to be. The Land of Oz kind of green, just without the swirly yellow brick road. I would have enjoyed it a lot more if it weren't so cloudy. I liked rain occasionally, but I was one of those people that started to wither up and turn brown if I went too long without sun. Rain was good for days when you could stay inside and take a nap. I noticed that cute rain boots were a fashion here; I guessed I would have to go shopping. Even though my shoes would never touch the ground, that didn't mean I couldn't participate in the whims of local couture.

The thing that made me the happiest were the brief sights I got of the ocean as we drove along a road that bordered a cliff. I'd loved the ocean for as long as I could remember. Even without my legs, I could swim with the best of them. I felt freer in the water, lighter. Best of all, these beaches didn't have sand. Sand was the bane of my existence. It got everywhere, and I do mean _everywhere_. And if you've ever tried to hose down a sandy wheelchair, you know that it's a massive pain. The beaches here were mostly pebbly, with random pieces of driftwood. I had a feeling I would be spending a lot of time watching the waves and _not_ getting sand all over myself. Even seeing a storm coming up over the ocean would be a new experience, definitely worth getting wet for.

But it wasn't just the natural landscape that was different. Even the way the buildings were made fascinated me. Everything was painted in earth tones: greens, deep reds, browns, the occasional dark blues. Colors were lighter in the South because they reflected the heat and kept things cool. That certainly didn't seem to be a big problem in La Push. There were also all these really cool carvings of local animals and mythical figures. I saw a lot of bears and hawks, but it seemed like this reservation was most focused on the wolf. Carved and hand-drawn wolves were everywhere. That was cool with me. I'd always been a dog person.

As we drove around, Clearwater pointed out the most necessary buildings: the grocery store, the library, the pharmacy, and the clinic where I would be working. I was thankful that everything in town was close together. I hadn't wanted to ship my specialty van out here until I knew that the situation would work out, so for the time being I would be using my wheelchair as my sole means of transportation.

Two blocks away from the clinic, Clearwater pulled into a driveway that led up to a small cottage, emphasis on the small. But despite the smallness, I loved it at first sight. It certainly wasn't a postcard cottage, especially not a Thomas Kincaid cottage with all the golden light and no flaws. (Does anybody else find his pictures stupid, or is that a me thing? Just thought I'd ask.) No, this place had depth, shadow, and character. It was painted dark blue with crimson shutters. The trim was cream, and red and blue pansies bloomed from window boxes. I could tell that it was all one story, and appreciated the council's forethought. The yard wasn't too big, which was good. Not only would I be wheeling across it several times a day, but I would have to pay someone else to take care of it. It was just easier on me to take care of a few window boxes and leave the rest to someone else. That is, unless someone let me borrow their riding lawnmower. That changed the whole equation.

By the time I had taken all this in, Clearwater had leapt out of the truck, set up my wheelchair and come around to my side. He set the brakes on the chair so that it wouldn't go anywhere, and I lifted myself down with no problem. He looked impressed, but didn't say anything. "So what do you think of the place?" he asked me as I pushed myself up the path to the door. "A couple of the guys and I repainted it when we heard the new nurse was coming. Had to make a good impression on the pale face and all that."

"I love it," I said frankly as I admired the cream and red front door, "and that's usually a hard thing for me to admit. How far is it to the beach from here?"

"Not far. Maybe half a mile?" Clearwater guessed as he handed me the key. "Oh, and Sam wanted me to tell you not to worry about the moving truck tomorrow. A bunch of us guys are going to come and unload everything for you, if that's okay."

"Like I'm going to argue with that? Even if I weren't in the chair, I couldn't exactly juggle my entertainment center by myself. Who's Sam?" I asked.

Clearwater grinned. "He's kinda like the big Kahuna around here. You'll see what I mean when you meet him tomorrow. What time do you want us here in the morning?"

I considered the question. I wanted all the major furniture to be moved in fairly early so that I would have the rest of the day to organize the kitchen and my closet exactly the way I wanted them, but I also wanted to be considerate of my helpers. Guys are notorious for not exactly being morning people. "Would ten be too early?" I finally decided. "If you guys unpack my kitchen boxes first, I can provide coffee."

"Deal," he said. "See ya tomorrow, McLeod." With a sloppy salute, he turned around and headed back to the truck.

I fingered the house key lovingly. Finally, I had a place of my very own. Someplace that would reflect my personality, and would be away from all my bad memories back home. I wheeled up the ramp that led to the front door (the ramp looked like it had just been built; the wood was still light brown) and let myself in.

I took a deep breath and looked at the small rooms and carefully carved woodwork. Already I could see the perfect places for my overstuffed chair, my bookcase, and the shelves for my DVD collection. I carefully wheeled around, taking note of the kitchen with a gas stove, which I saw with some alarm. I'd never once cooked on a gas stove. Despite that, the kitchen cabinets weren't too high. I would be able to stock everything in low places, where I could reach them. Even the counters looked lower than they normally would be. I wondered if my hosts had done some renovation just to please me. It wouldn't have surprised me – the bathroom had plenty of railings and a bath chair for my convenience.

Finally I arrived in the master bedroom. You could only tell it was the master because the one other bedroom only had one small window, while this one had a bay that looked out into the forest. There was a cot already in place, as promised in my welcome letter. I reached into my messenger bag, and went into the bathroom to shower and change into my pajamas. My head hadn't even hit the pillow before I was dead to the world.

….

AN: Oh, and her hidden genius? Yeah, that's totally mine. I once fixed a toilet with a paper clip. Any of you guys have any little quirks of talent? Tell me in review form! And stay tuned for the next chapter. That's when we get to meet the rest of the guys!


	4. I'm a Jerk and They're Just Plain Weird

AN: So, you guys are seriously lucky that I'm having so much fun with this. You get twelve pages with this chapter! I actually had a hard time figuring out where to knock it off.

I got four reviews on the last chapter I posted, so I'm not quite up to where I'd like to be yet. Would more of you please review? I reply to every single one I get, I promise!

Enjoy!

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Chapter 3:

I'm a Jerk and They're Just Plain Weird

_It is the addition of strangeness to beauty that constitutes the romantic character in art. _

— _Walter Hagen_

My eyes opened immediately the next morning as my cell phone alarm went off at 6:30. Yes, sports fans, I am one of those disgusting people that actually enjoys getting up early in the morning. I laid on the narrow cot for a minute and said the words I said every morning before I did anything else: "As we rejoice in the gift of this new day, so may the light of your presence, O God, set our hearts on fire with love for you; now and forever. Amen." I found the tradition soothing. In a lot of ways I wasn't terribly religious, but that didn't mean that God wasn't a part of my life. The simple, traditional prayer helped me to center my day before I faced whatever frustrations and idiots that happened to cross my path. As I'm certain I've said before, I'm not the most patient person on the planet. Imagine what I would be like _without_ my morning prayer. I'm sure you're all shuddering at the thought.

I went through my daily physical therapy exercises. I was determined to stay in shape, even if my legs couldn't keep up with the rest of me. That was one of the reasons why I had a push wheelchair instead of an electric one. I was lucky enough to have full use of my arms (and my bladder, praise ye the Lord. I was really blessed that I was only a partial paraplegic). I didn't want to give that up, not even for convenience's sake.

Even though I had showered the night before, I still felt kinda gross, especially after exercising, so I took the time to take another quick shower before I dressed in extra thick leggings beneath my jeans, a black camisole, and an oversized University of Memphis hoody. I didn't bother with make-up or anything; I would be too busy working and sweating to care about my appearance. Besides, it wasn't like I was trying to impress anybody.

After I'd slung my hair up into a ponytail and laboriously laced my black Converse on my unresponsive feet, I was ready for the day…or so I thought. My stomach rumbled, and I realized that I had exactly no food in the house. I would have to hope one of the guys Clearwater had told me about would be nice enough to take me to the grocery store later. I couldn't exactly stock a pantry on what I could carry on the back of my chair.

My stomach grumbled again and I sighed. There was no help for it; I would have to leave the house and go foraging for food. I put on a coat and wrapped a scarf around my neck and lower face. I couldn't use mittens, because they would interfere with the gloves I used to protect my hands from my wheels. I resigned myself to perpetual blue fingers until I had my van and left the house, locking the door behind me.

It didn't take long to reach the heart of La Push: Main Street. The early morning crowd was already up and about, mostly seeming to congregate at a little diner across the street from the medical clinic. Good; I loved eating in those "greasy spoon" type places. They usually had so much more character than a Perkins or something like that. Besides, I was all about supporting the local economy. I was a part of it now, after all.

I pushed my way over to the diner, thankful that I could already spot a ramp on the side of the building. A lot of small towns forget little details like that. However, doors were another issue. I tried to open it on my own and push my way in, but my wheels hit another patch of ice and just spun. I could only push the wheels with one hand while I held the door open as wide as possible with the other. I bit my tongue against the barrage of curses that were threatening to come pouring out of my mouth and tried again. And, of course, I failed again to do something as simple as enter a building. I could literally feel the steam coming out of my ears.

"Hey! Wait a sec!" called a high voice from inside the restaurant. A girl that looked only a little younger than me rushed over and held the door open. With both of my arms available, I was able to shove my way over the ice patch and finally get into the blessed warmth of the diner.

"Thanks," I grumbled at the girl, flexing my cramped fingers. "I knew it would be too much to ask if the doorway were actually salted."

The girl looked angry. "You're right. Somebody could get hurt. Hey!" she suddenly screeched to a guy sitting at the counter. "Ask Kim for some salt for the ramp; looks like Jared forgot about it this morning. Somebody's going to bust their butt on that ice out there."

I watched in amazement as yet another Gigantor just grinned at the tiny girl and said, "Sure thing, sweetheart." He loped into the kitchen, came back out with a box of salt, and proceeded to take time away from his hot breakfast just to satisfy the girl. Wow. And everybody said that people in the _South_ were nice. They had nothing on these guys!

Before I had completed my thought, the girl had grabbed the handlebars to my chair and wheeled me over to the first available table. Despite the earliness of the day, this place was already hopping. She kicked a chair out of the way and stuck me at the end of the table where it had been. "Sorry about that. Are you okay?" she asked as she grabbed her plate and cup of coffee off the bar and sat down next to me.

Normally in this kind of situation, I would immediately hate anybody who had maneuvered me against my will and just invited themselves to eat with me. But there was just something about this girl I liked. She was small, but her features were really delicate. She would have been the Audrey Hepburn kind of beautiful if it weren't for her clothes. She was wearing a purple polka dotted rain coat, a yellow and black striped shirt, a purple knit hat with a gigantic sunflower attached to it, a denim mini skirt, yellow leggings, and knee high black boots. She was a flash of color against all the blacks and browns and dark reds that everybody else was wearing, including me. So instead of busting her chops for pushiness I said, "No harm, no foul. I'm just not used to the ice yet. We didn't get it very much of it back home, so I'm kinda out on a limb." I held my hand out to the girl. "I'm Clara McLeod."

She shook my hand and said, "Claire Young. Where's home? You have an accent."

I refrained from pointing out that to me, they were all the ones with the accents. Besides, I'd been assured by people the world over that my accent wasn't very thick. Unless I was _talking_ about my accent, of course, and then it got really heavy without any permission from me. "Memphis," I drawled. "I just got in last night."

"Oh," she said, recognition flooding her black, laughing eyes. "You're the new nurse! Quil told me that you were coming."

I raised one eyebrow. "And how did Quil know I was coming? And for that matter, who the hell is Quil?"

"I'm Quil," said the salt guy as he picked up his loaded breakfast plate and sat down next to Claire. "Seth is my friend. He told me about picking you up at the airport. Nice to meet you, McLeod." He looked at me askance, to see if I would protest the spreading of my new nickname.

Instead, I picked up my menu. "So what's good here? I'm starving. I haven't eaten anything since those lousy peanuts on the plane, and that was twelve hours ago."

"God, I hate those peanuts," Claire said, her small nose crinkling. It just made her look even more alluring. "I got some once that had something _growing_ on them. And on that note, let me give you a piece of advice about eating here: just about everything is good. Some friends of ours own the place and they do all the cooking themselves."

Right on cue, a middle aged lady who was beautiful curves all over came and stood by our table. "Hey, I'm Kim," she said as she held a pen over a notepad. "What can I get you for breakfast?"

"Mornin', Kim. I'm Clara," I told her. "Got any French toast?"

"Sure," she said. "I think my husband makes the best French toast in the world, but then, I just might be biased. Do you want your maple syrup warmed?"

I made a face. "No syrup at all for me, please. Just some butter if that's all right, and some coffee with lots of cream, no sugar."

"Coming right up!" she chirped. "You want a refill on your coffee, Claire?"

"No, she doesn't," butted in Quil. "Any more coffee and she's going to fly straight to the moon, and I don't have the time today to chase her down."

"Sounds like an interesting turn of events," Claire said as she munched on her bacon. "Another cup, please, Kim!"

Kim scurried away as Quil rolled his eyes. "Claire," he whined, drawing her name out into at least three syllables.

"Quil," she whined back at him, and then turned to me, pointedly ignoring him. "So what do you think of La Push so far, Clara?"

I unraveled my scarf from around my throat. It was so warm in here that I didn't need it. "Other than the ice, I think I really like it, even though it's a little early to make an informed decision. My house is gorgeous, and I love having the beach so near. This morning I could even hear the waves as I got dressed."

Claire nodded. "That's the best. I can't imagine living anywhere that's out of sight from the sea. It would be so lonely."

Kim brought over my French toast and coffee, and Quil, Claire and I talked while we finished our breakfasts. I had never seen anyone eat as much as Quil did that morning; he had a twelve stack of pancakes, toast, scrambled eggs with gravy over them, link sausages, bacon, fruit, orange juice and coffee. I was pretty sure not even hobbits ate that much.

Aside from the massive reverse anorexia going on, I liked Claire and Quil. They had an interesting relationship. They unknowingly helped each other with even the smallest task. Claire would pass Quil the salt before he even had time to ask for it, and he buttered her toast before it had a chance to get cold. Seriously, I'd only seen that kind of familiarity with people who have had about fifty years of marriage to go on. Even though Claire teased Quil all the time, you could tell that he absolutely adored her, and she him. He wouldn't tease her back quite as openly, but every once in a while he would just give her a pointed look and it was like she knew what he was thinking. I almost felt like I was intruding, but then they would so effortlessly include me in the conversation again that I would forget all about it.

They walked me outside, but I didn't get very far down the street before Quil shouted, "Hey, McLeod!"

"What?" I hollered back, turning around to face him.

"Where's your car?"

I blinked at him. "Uh, Professor X had to borrow it for a while. I drove myself in, idiot." I banged the side of my chair. "This car is totally fuel efficient."

I was surprised when he and Claire both looked angry. "You mean to tell me you wheeled yourself into town…on icy roads…at 7:30 in the morning…for _breakfast_?" Claire asked, as if she were speaking to a toddler.

"Yes?" I didn't understand why they looked mad. Why should they care? "It wasn't far. Besides, I've wheeled farther than that on a daily basis at college. It's good exercise. Keeps all my pistons strong." I made the muscles on my arms bunch up at Quil. Eat your heart out, Gigantor. "Besides, I was hungry and I haven't had a chance to go grocery shopping yet."

Quil shook his head. "You shouldn't have done that, Clara. You could have slid off the road or gotten hurt. This is a reservation, you know. There is such a thing as wild animals. Who's going to nurse the nurse if you get hurt?"

"Really? You're going to give me _that_ argument?" I asked, amazed. "Look, guys, I…. I suppose I appreciate the concern, but I promise I'm all good. It's cool. I got here just fine and I'll get home in the same condition I left in. Capisce?" And with that I turned and started on my way again back home.

I didn't get very far before I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of Claire's car as Quil put my chair in the trunk. "This is completely unnecessary," I fumed to myself. "Not that far…only two damned blocks…"

"Be that as it may, Clara, it's not going to happen. At least not when we can offer you a ride," Claire said sternly. "Now say 'thank you' like an adult, shut up, and point the way to your house."

There was a long pause while I considered the possibility of throttling her while Quil was in the back seat. Coming to the conclusion that it was utterly impossible, I gave up on the plan. "Thank you," I ground out. I had been beaten and I knew it. But that didn't mean I had to like it or do something insane, like be _gracious_.

Quil leaned his head in-between the front seats. "She lives in that cottage just off of Church Street on Ocean Drive, Claire-Bear."

I bit my tongue at the endearment. Ugh, ugh, and double ugh. What did he think she was, two years old? Seriously? _Claire-Bear?_

Claire acted like I had not at all just been forced into a car and taken somewhere against my will. There was a name for that, I just knew it. It rhymed with "bid map," didn't it? Instead she talked sunnily for the five minutes it took to take me back to my house. Once I got outside and felt how cold the wind was, though, I suffered a debilitating wave of repentance. That always happened to me; I could never just be mad. I would lose my temper, look like a jerk, and then five seconds later I would be apologizing for it all. "Thanks for the ride, Claire. It was nice to meet you," I told her as I unloaded myself from her car.

She grinned at me, the sunflower on her hat wiggling cheerfully with her movements. "You too, Clara. And don't worry. In a little town like this, everybody sees everybody all the time."

"Good," I said, unbending enough to smile back at her. "Because I definitely want to know where you got that hat; it's way fun."

"I made it myself!" Claire squealed, nearly rupturing my eardrums. "I could show you how, it's really easy…"

"And on that note," Quil said, running the Claire Enthusiasm Train off the tracks before it had a chance to run away too far with her, "we have to be heading on. I'll be back in a bit to help unload the truck, McLeod. Sam asked me last night about it, and I don't have to work today."

Wow. I had just acted like a total hag towards this guy's girlfriend, and he was going to spend his day off from work helping me move in? Was the water in this town spiked with niceness juice along with the fluoride? Because it was all getting a little ridiculous in my opinion. Since nobody had made a big deal over my chair either (except for the whole bid mapping episode), I knew they weren't doing it just because they felt sorry for me. It looked like the people in La Push genuinely wanted to help me, and that out of no other motives than those of general human decency. Weird. "Thanks, Quil. That'd be great. See you then!"

They both waved at me and drove off. I went inside to ponder whether this whole niceness thing could be contagious while I figured out where my pots and pans would go in the kitchen cabinets.

…

Promptly at ten, my doorbell rang. "Coming!" I called, as I lifted myself from the kitchen floor back into my chair. I pushed my chair towards the door and opened it, but my hand fell limply from the knob in shock. Standing in front of me was what looked like a mob of Gigantors and Cro-Magnon Men, and maybe a few Hulks, too (minus the green skin and purple skivvies). And if you don't think that's intimidating, you are crazy.

In situations where I feel overwhelmed, I tend to try and make myself bigger. Like a puffer fish. And then I usually manage to stick my foot in my mouth, because I don't exactly have a filter on my mouth in the best of times, and then definitely not when I'm a little freaked out. But I was going to try and temper my snarky with a tint of niceness, just in case. "So, I really hope you guys are here to help me move in. Otherwise, I have suspicions that you're here to tear down my house brick by brick, and that would be really annoying," I said with my chin thrust out.

The guy in front grinned down at me. Phew. Thugs weren't generally known for their smiling, were they? "What if we actually were here to tear the house down? Are you really going to smart off to us?" he asked congenially.

I shrugged. "Hakuna Matata. It's not like any of my stuff is in here yet. I don't have much to lose."

He laughed. "Good to know. I'm Sam."

"Ah! The Big Kahuna at last!" I crowed and held out my hand. "Clara McLeod. Or, if you want to follow that one's lead," I jutted my chin at Seth's shaking form behind Sam, "it's just McLeod."

"Noted," Sam said. "Now, if Seth is done peeing himself from laughter, we're ready to get started. The moving van was right behind us." Right on cue, the bright orange truck rounded the corner and drove down the street. "If you'll just direct traffic and tell us where you you're your stuff, we can handle this in no time," Sam said eagerly. He popped his neck like he was about to go into a wrestling ring.

"Like I'm going to argue with that kind of offer. I'm all about supervising." Sweet. Sounded like I wouldn't have to kill myself to get all this done after all. I might have to invest in putting these guys on retainer. They could be really useful to have around.

"Sounds good." Sam turned around to the boy band of from hell behind him and started barking out orders. "Quil, Brady, Collin, you guys get up on the truck and start passing furniture down. That way we don't have to mess with the ramp. Seth, stay with Clara and tell us where she wants stuff and make sure we don't run her over. The rest of you, start carrying boxes in." And just like that, there was perfect order out of chaos. Each guy snapped to attention and did his job without complaint or questions.

"Geez," I muttered up at Seth out of the corner of my mouth. "Did he spend much time as a drill sergeant in a former life?"

Clearwater choked with laughter, and I thought I saw some of the other guys snicker, too. This, I knew, was completely impossible. They were all too far away to hear what I'd said.

"Something like that," Clearwater finally pushed out in-between snorts of laughter.

Just then, another pickup truck drove up, and yet _another_ giant guy stepped out. "Hey!" he called to everyone in general. "I brought the girls!"

Quil acted like he had just won the lottery. "Thanks, Paul!" he shouted as he carefully set down the box he was carrying and ran over to gather Claire up in a kiss. I rolled my eyes at them; they'd seriously just been together two hours ago. You'd think they were old enough to be past this Duckie love stage. But then I saw a few more of the guys go over and put their arms around some of the girls, and I supposed that sentimentality was just another thing that got into the water around here, like niceness. Perish the thought.

And then that Paul guy came up to pick up a box and got a look at me. Our eyes met, and I swear I felt the earth shift. I was glad I was strapped to the chair; for a second I thought I was going to fall out.

"Holy shit….was that an earthquake?" I squealed, startled.

All the guys turned around to look at me, and then they all looked at Paul. And then they started to laugh.

Assholes.

…

AN: If you are my fifth review, I will include your name in the next chapter. Ready, set, go! :-D


	5. Morons Keep Falling On My Head

Disclaimer: If I owned Twilight, I would be guilty of slavery. I believe that slavery is bad. So, no owning is happening on my part. Sorry, lawyers. No lawsuit will be happening today, I'm afraid.

AN: Well, here's the update! A little later in the day I'd planned, but hey; at least you got it, right?

Don't look for an update tomorrow. My aunt is coming in to visit and I doubt I'll have the chance to do any writing. Sorry! But you do get eleven pages in this update, so you really have no right to complain.

The award goes out to Rogue200315 for being the fifth reviewer of the last chapter! Congrats, Annie! Your name is in here, and I think you'll like where it is. If you don't, you are CR-RA-AZY.

The person to leave the seventh review on this chapter gets their name in the next chapter! You see how richly Rogue was rewarded. Go ye therefore and do thou likewise, peeps!

….

Chapter 4:

Morons Keep Falling On My Head

_Dogs never bite me. Just humans. _

— _Marilyn Monroe_

After the sudden, abrupt stillness of locking eyes with Paul, everything started up really fast again. It was like movie being paused, then fast-forwarded with no warning.

Claire and two other girls came waltzing up to me, pushing Paul aside as if he were a wadded up ball of Kleenex in their wake. "Hey, Mac!" Claire chirped as she walked over and gave me a brisk hug. I was surprised into hugging her back; I seemed to be in need of a little solidarity at the moment. "I brought some of my friends to help out, if that's okay. We're really good at organizing the important things: bathroom cabinet, closets, pantries, ect. This is Emily," she gestured at a beautiful woman with muted scars down the side of her face, "and Margot." A woman maybe five years older than me gave a cheerful wave. She had a rocking, anime style haircut. Not many people in real life could pull that kind of look off, but she could. "Emily is Sam's wife, and Margot is Embry's fiancée. Kim wanted to come, but she had to stay and help Jared with the lunchtime rush at the diner. She's going to bring us all some food around 2:00 if we're still busy then."

I eyed how swiftly all of my earthly possessions were getting tossed into place in my house. "At the rate they're going, we should be done in about ten seconds. But they might grow a little faint at heart when they realize that I have a baby grand piano arriving in half an hour." (Stop giving me those weird looks. I know I said that I wasn't willing to ship out my customized van, but my piano? Yeah, it definitely had to come. If Ron Weasley were here, he would tell me that I needed to sort out my priorities.)

Margot snickered. "I wouldn't worry. I don't think even a piano would phase any of those guys, especially not when a couple of them are there to lift together. It takes a lot to scare them off."

"I don't think even Superman would…" I muttered. I pointed towards the cottage. "Y'all wanna come in? I could definitely use some help with the closets and stuff. I'm terrible at that. It all just ends up on the floor when I lose patience halfway through the job."

Claire mock whispered to the other girls as they followed me into the foyer, "Isn't that so cute? She said 'y'all.'"

I glared at her. "Yes, I did, and the next person that makes a comment about it is going to get a finger caught in my spokes. Understood?" I thought I heard one of the guys, maybe that weirdo Paul, chuckle at he headed back outside for the next load of boxes. Bastard. I could be perfectly scary when I wanted to be.

Emily snapped a brisk salute. "Understood, captain."

I led the way inside, grumbling briskly under my breath in French. That semester in Paris was good for more than learning how to make crepes. It was actually really handy knowing a second language as well as I did. I could be screaming at people in French and they thought I was cussing them out, but in reality I was actually saying something totally innocuous, like, "I have a headache!" or "May PMS cramps visit you daily for the rest of your life!" (This curse was especially fun to contemplate when it was a guy who had pissed me off.)

Once all the drama settled down, I actually had a lot of fun moving in. I thought I might have been suffering from nesting, heaven forbid. But I couldn't help it; it was so much fun to have room to play around with the furniture and get it just right.

The girls were really helpful. Emily completely took over settling my closet for me, and when I looked in there later that night, I saw that she had set up low shelving and racks that I could actually reach. Even more incredibly, she had color coded my clothes, properly folded and hung up my pants (something I never bothered to do), and arranged my bras from "casual" to "hubba-hubba." I kid you not. There were labels, just in case I got confused.

Claire and Margot took over organizing the bathroom, the guest room, and the linen closet. This proved to be a highly profitable enterprise for Claire, as I caught her in a fairly intense lip lock with Quil in the guest room closet at one point. I just rolled my eyes and left. As long as nobody was getting busy on any of the surfaces in my house, I was fine. Just don't rub it in my face.

Seth followed me around like a really enormous shadow all day, making the guys put the furniture exactly where I wanted it to be. I honestly did have to be that particular; I had my chair to take into consideration. I wasn't forcing them to work unnecessarily for my own amusement. Really, I promise. When the couch and my favorite red overstuffed chair had to be moved around to make room for my piano, there were definitely a few groans. Paul smacked the gripers upside the head and then they did what I asked. I would have slapped them myself aside from the whole, you know, height deficiency.

After that, there was this huge undertaking of connecting all the cable and electrical wires to my TV, DVD player, and my Wii. I think they just wanted to use that job as an excuse to play with my gaming system, though, which was pretty clear because by the time Kim arrived with what looked like enough hamburgers and French fries to feed Somalia, they were all playing Wii boxing against one another.

By that point, hardly anyone was calling me Clara. It was just too easy for someone to yell, "Claire" or "Clara," and the wrong one of us would say, "Yes?" I was firmly established as Mac in this crowd. As long as nobody added "big" in front of the "Mac," I could deal. The first person to align me with that pickle-y disgrace of a hamburger would probably have to sleep with a gun under their pillow. Pickles. Gross. There was absolutely no reason in the world why they should exist at all, the turncoat cucumbers.

The only person that was still calling me Clara was Paul. And let me tell you, folks, he was officially earning a perfect ten in sketchy behavior. It wouldn't have surprised me a bit to see him boiling a rabbit in the kitchen, like that crazy chick did in _Fatal Attraction_. His eyes followed me everywhere I went, and they got all soft and gooey if I said anything. I could have said, "Hey, Margot? Could you make sure my tampons are handy? I'm going to need them soon," and he would have looked awed.

Guys that were too clingy too fast really freaked me out. Besides, we hadn't even officially been introduced yet. For all I knew, Paul wasn't even his name. He could have been a pedophile or had a wheelchair fetish. In any case, he had absolutely no right to be clingy around me. I didn't even like my _family_ being clingy most of the time. The occasional hug, yes. The constant staring? Not so much. It made me feel like I couldn't breathe, like I was being trapped in a corner with no way out. I'm sure some therapist somewhere would tell me that I had a problem with intimacy because it took away my control over situations, and that it all stemmed from my utter lack of control over my accident. But I wasn't so hot on therapy (unless someone really needed it, of course, and I'd never felt like I did), so I promptly told the Sigmund voice in my head to sit on it and rotate.

The moment Kim walked in and called softly, "Hey, guys! Food's here!" all of the boys' heads popped up like they were deer that had just heard a hunter's approach. I'm pretty sure that if it weren't for Sam swiftly grabbing Kim and pulling her out of the way, she would have been run over like a squirrel on the highway. The same thing would have happened to Kim's waitress, Annie, but Seth protected her from certain death with the zeal of a Green Beret. Huh. Yet another guy who seemed totally in love. Barf.

By the time the guys had dispersed back to the living room and kitchen, only a few empty brown paper bags were left on the floor. A lone French fry had escaped the carnage, but only because it had flown through the air and landed smack in the middle of Kim's hair. Emily, Annie, Margot, Claire and I looked at the empty sacks hungrily, and Sam looked annoyed. "Hey, you yahoos!" he yelled as he tramped to where all the guys were eating. "For Pete's sake, did you think about leaving some for the girls?"

I poked my head around the corner and snorted. All of the guys were frozen in the act, their eyes wide, like they'd just been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Collin had his teeth half sunk into a burger, and Embry was choking on the milkshake he'd downed in one gulp. Paul was snarling at Brady, whose hand was even then wrapped around a somewhat fresh burger. Brady swallowed hard, stood up slowly, and minced his way around Paul to stand in front of me. "Uh, sorry about that, Mac. Here, you can have this one." And he handed over the burger.

"Thanks for the generosity." I glared at him and passed the burger over to Emily. After all, she was Mrs. Big Kahuna. There was nothing wrong with making friends and influencing people when it suited my schedule.

"All right, boys, here's how it's going to go," I said in my most low and threatening tone. I wasn't surprised when they all straightened up, like they had when Sam had given them an order. You'd be amazed at how cowed guys often are at authoritative women. Even those women in a wheelchair; I think it's because they think I'm a Transformer or something. Whatever works; I'm not choosy. "We girls are going to come in there and take whatever we want for our lunch. You guys can clean up the rest with no argument from us. All trespassers before we are safely out of the room will be shot." I looked at the girls behind me, who were trying really hard to hide their smug grins. "Go for it, ladies."

Margot led the way, skipping into the den and snatching a hot dog from Brady and some onion rings from Embry. "Thanks, boys!" she said airily, and with a flick of her fingers, she disappeared back to the guest bedroom to eat in peace. Emily, Annie, Kim, Claire and I followed suit (with me snatching a hamburger from Paul, who looked insulted, the wuss) and quickly joined her back there. Behind us, we could hear protests from the guys.

"Those big babies; listen to them! Do they really begrudge us a little lunch?" I asked incredulously as they all piled on the freshly put together twin bed. They looked like a bunch of birds on a telephone wire.

"Oh, no," Emily said, horrified, a mozzarella stick halfway to her mouth. If she didn't move it soon, it was going to make an unscheduled detour to _my_ mouth. "They just weren't thinking earlier. You shouldn't think badly of them."

I shrugged my shoulders as I swallowed a bite of my burger. "I don't know enough of them to judge either way. But why else would they be in there whining?"

Claire giggled. As the youngest of us, I supposed that she was allowed to giggle, even though I usually didn't endorse such behavior. "They're not whining because we got some of the food, Mac. They're whining because we're not in there eating with them."

"That's the worst punishment we can inflict," Margot said smugly. "We only use it occasionally for correction, because it's kind of cruel in _some _eyes. But the next time, you can bet that they won't act like a pack of rabid dogs."

"You wish," Annie said nasally, in-between bouts of hysterical laughter.

I looked at her sideways. "Is she okay? It looks like she needs the Heimlich."

"Nah, she'll be all right," said Kim. "She's just still a little new to all this, so she still finds it funny."

"New to what?" Annie was still howling. She was the only other pale face in the room besides me and I had been counting on her for some support. Apparently that was not to be.

"Uh…well," Margot stuttered, for once looking utterly without her cool.

"Just being around so many guys all the time," Emily put in smoothly. "Anybody want some of these cheese sticks? I can't eat them all."

"Pass 'em over. They won't be lonely with me," I said, holding out a napkin. She gave me two and I munched on them happily. Nothing better in the world than gooey, fried cheese. "So, what's Paul's glitch? He's acting like a moron."

Suddenly it seemed like the entire house was quiet, like the power had gone out. I couldn't even hear any noise from the Wii.

I had never been able to resist truly quiet moments. I waited an awkward second while everybody was busy looking at either the floor or the ceiling, and then snapped my fingers loudly. I snickered when everybody jumped and looked at me.

"What was _that_ for, Mac?" Claire asked angrily.

I shrugged. "I hate awkward silences. I used to snap like that in college, in those quiet moments before the professor came into the room. Everybody would be so serious and have their textbooks out, watching the door like Queen Elizabeth was about to step in. I could never resist the chance to make a little mayhem."

Claire shook her head and sighed. "Clara McLeod, you are one strange woman."

"It's been said," I assured her, as I slurped the last of the cheese out of the fried crispy shell. Emily swiftly hid the rest of them from me, looking fierce. With the scars, she looked even scarier than I did at times. Just to unnerve her, I laughed.

It wasn't until later that I realized that they had completely dodged my question about Paul.

…

I started getting really tired by five. Even though I was freakily strong, pushing yourself around in a wheelchair and staying in the same position for such a long time is uber exhausting. Not to mention the fact that I had been up since 6:30 in the morning. I moved slower and slower through the rooms and around the throng of people that still inhabited my little house. Emily and Kim had just finished organizing the pots and pans in my kitchen. Get this: they'd even lined the bottom of the cupboards with paper. I didn't know people actually did that outside of books, but it was really sweet of them. Some of the guys had pounded in the hardware for curtains and hung up shades. They did all the things I wouldn't have been able to do without even asking. Nobody had ever treated me like that before, not even my family.

I had expected to be unpacking boxes for a month, but everywhere I looked, everything was already done. Somehow, my belongings took on a homier light that I'd expected them to. Claire was an artistic type; she'd probably arranged all my knick-knacks and pictures to their best advantage. Even my DVDs had been carefully put in shelves in the same alphabetical order that I'd packed them in. I wasn't sure who had done that, but it sure saved me a hell of a lot of hassle. My DVDs were one of the reasons I'd had so many dates in college. I'd invested a lot of money in them, and it was a pretty awesome collection. I was thankful, though, that nobody had seen fit to make fun of me for my complete boxed series of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_. I had grown up on those, and I absolutely adored them. I just didn't really project the "nerd" vibe, so sometimes it got mixed reactions from the less-informed.

Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, given the staring), Paul was actually the one to notice I was tiring. He just hadn't struck me as the overly sensitive type, the kind of person to even notice what color eyes a girl had. But he caught me rubbing my sore hands and barked out, "Okay, guys, I think we're done for the day. Let's give Clara back her place now."

Emily got up from the kitchen floor, her knees popping. "Yeah, I need to get back home anyway. I can't leave Sue alone with the kids any longer." She walked gracefully over to me and gave me a hug. "Welcome home, Mac. Call me if you need anything, okay? I put all of our numbers on the pad next to the fridge."

"Thanks, Em," I said gratefully. "Really, I don't know what I would have done without you guys. I would have eventually died and mummified beneath all those boxes." Embry snorted appreciatively at my wit.

One by one, everybody slowly left the house. Paul was the last one at the door. He cleared his throat and spoke for the first time that day. "So, uh, if you need anything…well, I'm always around."

"Thanks," I said, trying to be patient. Yeah, like I was ever going to call Stalker Boy over to my house. Even if he did have a gravelly, sexy voice. "And thanks for all the help today."

"No problem. Kept me from the mound of paperwork I was looking for a reason to avoid," he said with a small smile. "I guess I'll see you later, then."

"Later." And finally, I was able to shut the door and lock it. I did a last run through of my cottage. It was a lot easier to see all that had been done when I wasn't trying to look around one muscle-y arm or another. I wheeled from room to room, admiring the care that these people had taken with the belongings of a complete stranger. My red chair was placed at the exact right distance from the TV, and I don't know how they knew, but my favorite fuzzy, white and blue checked blanket was draped over its back. I couldn't have done better, even if I'd been given a month to do all this.

When I got back to my bedroom, I was really floored. New sheets had been put on the bed (and that's a real pain in the ass in the best of times, let alone when you're tired and just want to die for a little while) and my Bible, the book I was reading, and a bottle of water were on my nightstand, next to a lit lavender candle, my favorite scent. Filmy white curtains blew through the barely opened bay window, bringing in a whiff of coming rain.

I took a deep breath and sighed. Finally, this was home. I could make a home here.

I put on my soft blue yoga pants, and left on my hoody. I had snuggled under the covers and turned out the light when I heard a wolf howl. How iconic of the Northwest. I lay in the moonlight, awake for no longer than five minutes, listening to another wolf joining in the cacophony, and then another.


	6. Medical Curiosities, Flour and Drunks

Disclaimer: If I owned Twilight and its characters, I would have named Renesmee Elizabeth, Jacob and Leah would have ended up together, and I would have had the Cullens buy a couple of guided missiles and blown the Volturi out of the sky. But you know. That's just me.

AN: Sorry for the long delay, folks! I got caught up in school and life. Let's just say that boyfriend number four has gone down, and I have no intention for dating for the next, oh, five, ten years. It seems that I am poison when it comes to relationships. So I'm not going to bother anymore. More time for writing, yeah? :-D

I really struggled this chapter with Paul's character. I had so much fun torturing him that I had to rewrite the chapter so that Clara wouldn't come across as a TOTAL bitch. Or, at least, not a cynical as me. I especially love the final scene. Let me know your thought and any ideas you may have of what you would like to see happen!

Katie

Chapter 5:

Medical Curiosities, Flour and Drunks

_Curiosity begins as an act of tearing to pieces or analysis. _

— _Samuel Alexander_

I slammed my refrigerator door closed angrily. This was getting more than a little ridiculous. I couldn't eat at the diner for every meal, as much as it would help out Kim and Jared's business. Even though I already knew that I would be sending for my van as soon as I could afford it, that didn't help me in the meantime until it got here. I needed some way to bring groceries home, and not just milk and bread. Serious groceries, folks, and that meant enough to fill my empty cupboards and get me through the next few _months_, not just from meal to meal. We were way past the ramen days. I didn't even have salt and pepper.

I sighed; how was it possible that I, a straight A, swear-to-God Dean's List every semester student, could have planned this move so badly? I banged my head against the fridge, saying, "stupid, stupid, stupid!" every time my head hit.

A little woozy, I glanced over and saw the pad of paper that Emily had placed there – the pad of paper with everyone's phone numbers on it. I briefly considered MacGyver-ing a red wagon to my wheelchair rather than resorting to asking somebody to give me a ride, then gave in and reached for my phone. I looked down the list of contacts and disregarded the people I knew would be busy at work, like Kim, Jared and Sam. Emily had mentioned having kids, so I definitely didn't want to disturb her, and I knew that Claire was a college student. Paul, of course, was not even considered. I grinned as I reached the logical choice: Clearwater. Even if he was busy, he would know who was available right now. I was pretty sure that he wouldn't mind being interrupted by my call. He wasn't the diva sort, thank God.

I was surprised when a sleepy voice answered my phone. "What?" he groaned out, his voice muffled.

"Clearwater, if we weren't living in the rainiest spot on the entire planet, I would say 'good morning, sunshine,'" I said, grinning goofily. He sounded so young. "Anyway, it's time to get up. It's butt-whipping time."

"Mac?"

"Who else? Why aren't you up yet, anyway? It's already…" I checked my watch, "9:30 in the morning! The sun, if it existed in this parallel dimension, would have been up for over three hours by now."

I heard Seth rubbing his face, the scratchy beard growth noisy against his hand. "Mac, you need to know something. I know it's going to come as something of a shock for you, but try to continue on in the face of paralyzing truth. Not everyone on the freakin' planet is masochistic enough to burn their eyeballs by being up with the sun. Some of us even enjoy being creatures of the night, which often requires _sleeping until later in the day!_"

I snickered. "Are you copping a 'tude with me, Clearwater? Geez. Sorry I interrupted your beauty sleep. God knows you need as much as you can get. Anyway, I have a question."

"No, I will not have sex with you," he said immediately. "Annie would kill me."

"The fact that that is where your mind immediately went speaks volumes of your attraction to me, Seth," I said solemnly. "You really should deal with these Freudian slips of yours. Anyway, what I really need is a ride. And _not _the sexual kind, you whore."

"Where do you need to go?" he asked, ignoring my insult.

I wished that I could say something hardcore, like "the Harley dealership" or "to get my tattoo finished" just to throw him for a loop, but I ended up grudgingly telling the truth. "I've got to hit the grocery store like you wouldn't even believe. I need _everything._ It's ridiculous. I don't even have boxed macaroni and cheese, which is kind of a tragedy for me."

"Okay. I can't take you today because I have to be at work in half an hour, but I'll find somebody who can. Will that work?"

I smothered my disappointment that I wouldn't be able to torment Clearwater for an entire morning and replied," Sure. Beggars can't be choosers. I'll be ready whenever the unlucky victim gets here."

"Sounds good. Later, Mac." I could hear Clearwater mentally calculating whether he could get fifteen more minutes of sleep in if he hung up right now.

"Wait, wait!" I cried. "I wanted to discuss with you the political and metaphysical state of the proud nation of Pakistan…" There was a click and then a dial tone. Success!

I wheeled myself back to the bedroom and added a multicolored scarf that I had crocheted over my dark orange shirt, plum jacket and jeans. I quickly braided my red hair, added a small orange ribbon, and then artfully tilted a dark green beret over my hair. Perfect; I was wearing all of my favorite colors. I touched up my make-up and slipped on my purple suede boots and then went into the den to await my doorbell.

Not two minutes after I had settled in for a long wait with "The Blue Sword" by Robin McKinley (I was working on my fourth copy of it; I reread it at least three times a year), there was a knock on the door. "Coming!" I yelled, slipped my book into the messenger bag hanging from my chair, and went to answer the door. "Aw, shit!" I groaned when I saw through a lowered peep hole in the door just who was waiting on the other side. I opened the door.

"Hey," Paul said with a hesitant grin, which would have made me soften a little if he weren't so busy memorizing my face. Ugh. "Seth called me. Said you needed to go bulk up on some groceries and that you needed a ride. I was free, so I volunteered. You ready to go?"

I plastered a tight smile on my face. Great. I could have spent three straight hours torturing Clearwater or mocking people with Margot, or at least crowing over the best deals with Emily. Instead I got the brooding, disturbing giant. I vowed to roll over his toes at the first provocation. "Yeah, thanks. I hate putting anybody out like this, but I won't be able to send for my van until next month."

"No problem," Paul said, trying to look nonchalant. I gave him points for trying, and then took them away when he added, "I'll always be around to help you. You know. Whenever you need it."

"Yeah, thanks," I said slowly, "but I doubt that'll be necessary after today. I should be good to go. And speaking of being good to go…." I looked pointedly at his car.

"Oh! Right!" Paul said, for once not staring at me as he looked at his watch. "Let's get going then."

"That would probably be best." _Before I kill you_, I added in my head.

For all his faults, Paul was cool about the whole chair thing. I pushed myself into his car, and even though I could see his hands twitching, he didn't try to help me. Probably just wanted to cop a feel, but I wasn't going to give him the opportunity. After I was in the car, he gave me my messenger bag and then stowed the chair in his trunk. Before I would have thought it possible, he was in the driver's seat. "Dang," I said, startled. "You're fast!"

He blushed and grinned like it was the greatest compliment he'd ever gotten. "Don't see the point on wasting time on anything that isn't important."

"Huh," I said in reply. I wasn't going to actually _agree_ with him. Still, he smiled a little, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Just in case he was telepathic, I thought at him what I thought of him and his little knowing smiles and his handsome face. He just calmly maneuvered down the street, so I guessed that I could cross out the whole mind-reading thing.

I didn't want to think about it, but I had to admit to myself that Paul actually was a fine specimen of man-flesh. He had the same dark skin and hair as all of his absurdly buff friends, but his clean-shaven cheek bones were a little more defined and his hair was short. I hated long hair and beards/mustaches/goatees on guys; it was a product of my grandfather's military influence. His arms rippled with taunt muscles, and for the briefest of seconds I thought of how his butt must match. Paul's eyes, when he wasn't looking at me all gooey, were decisive, with a hint of fire. I could guess that he had a rip roaring temper when the occasion called for it. If he would just get over his crush on me, we just might be able to get along.

Or that could have been the hormones talking as I considered those arms….

Paul flipped on the radio as he drove towards Main Street, and I was pleased when I heard the opening to Foo Fighters' "Wheels." "Awesome song," I commented, hoping to start a pleasant conversation.

He nodded, watching the road. "Yeah, it is. Kind of mournful in a way, isn't it?"

"Totally, which is weird to me; the music itself sounds so happy, like a road trip. It's such a contradiction." I glanced sideways at him. "Who's your favorite band?"

He shrugged. "Can't really pick a favorite off the cuff like that."

"What if I forced you?" I said, wondering if I could needle this guy into being normal. Or at least into having a good fight. Whichever came first.

"What would you do to force me?" he asked, fighting a smile. I imagine he thought I couldn't do anything to force _him_, Mr. Iron Man with an Iron Butt to Match.

I considered the question. "Well, there's always the Chinese Water torture, or bamboo shoots up the fingernails, or water-boarding. But I can think of a far worse cruelty." I leaned in close. "I could _not allow you to eat_ whenever you're at my house."

He gasped, his eyes mockingly wide. "No! You wouldn't do that! It's against the Geneva Convention!"

I answered with an evil laugh.

"Fine," he grumbled. "I guess my favorite is Nightwish."

"I approve," I said sullenly. "Damn it. I was expecting you to say something like Coldplay."

Paul snorted. "I like some of their stuff, but my favorite? No way. Now what about you?"

"My current musician of choice is Adele," I answered swiftly. "She's got pipes and she sings what she wants. There's a roughness to her that I really appreciate. I love how she isn't all Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson, either. She looks how she looks and she isn't going to get plastic surgery to fit an arbitrary ideal."

He finally looked over at me again, brazenly following the line of my braid as it ran down my neck and shoulder. "Exactly. You gotta love her originality. I admire people who are unashamed of who they are."

I didn't answer. I was too chagrined that he and I agreed so much on this. And his warm, fiery gaze made me uncomfortable. It wasn't that whole sick feeling you get when you think that somebody's following you in a parking lot or alley. It was…tickly. I stuffed the feeling down.

We reached the grocery store, and he smoothly pulled into a parking space. I didn't offer to let him use my handicapped parking permit. I only used it when I had my van and I needed more room for my ramp to work. I had two perfectly good arms that were capable of getting me wherever I needed to go, and the six feet between a handicapped space and a space further down wasn't going to make a huge difference to me. Unless, of course, the weather was really absurdly cold and icy. Then I happily availed myself of my closer parking space.

Paul brought my chair around and locked the brakes so that it wouldn't move as I got in. He handed me my bag, and as my fingers grazed his, I jumped. He felt like he had just crawled out from beneath an electric blanket, not at all like he was standing outside. "God bless, what is with you guys?" I fussed. "Clearwater felt like he had pneumonia and you're worse! What's the story with y'all?"

He shrugged and put his hand against my cold face. "It's just high body temperature. Most of us guys have it. It's some kind of genetic condition."

I shoved his hand away. "Yeah, well, it's probably not healthy. You could have a pituitary gland problem. Have y'all seen a doctor about it?"

He smiled again, like he was keeping a surprise from me. "A couple of years ago we did. He thought it was fascinating, but he didn't have many answers. He had the opposite problem; he was always cold."

"I don't know which is worse," I grumbled as I started toward the door. "Come on, let's get this over with."

To my chagrin, Paul was great to shop with. I'd never really minded shopping before, but I had to admit that having ye olde ripped guy with me really helped the day along. He pushed the cart for me, lifted heavy six packs of cokes and flats of bottled water, and pulled stuff down from the top shelves. I usually had to call a pimply, bad tempered teenager over to help with the stuff that took Paul 3.2 seconds to accomplish. It was restful.

He was also, regrettably, fun. He clowned around with me, played basketball with the toilet paper, and put on a game show voice as I was figuring out the best price between two different brands of spaghetti sauce. We made fun of the middle-aged women who shopped in sweat pants and curlers, which was pretty dangerous for Paul, considering that most of those women had changed his diapers at some point. We made up stories behind the various people that we saw. I made the meat manager into an escaped assassin from Russia, and Paul wove a tale of betrayed love around the girl who was buying eighteen cartons of ice cream.

Unsurprisingly, he also helped fill in the gaps of the stuff I needed to have at the house. I had made out a grocery list, but it was Paul who pointed out that I would probably need flour and vanilla at some point. I guess he loved food enough to know that it didn't just appear in greasy brown bags from a fast food joint.

We checked out, and I glared when I saw his fingers start to reach into his back pocket for his wallet. He put his hand back on the cart, even though I saw him look at me balefully. Did he seriously think I was going to let him pay for my groceries? Yeesh, it was like feminism had never even happened. Wasn't that a quote from "Miss Congeniality?" Good movie….

We were on our way back to the car when a guy walking across the parking lot tripped and almost fell on me. Even though it was only one in the afternoon, I could smell the whiskey that seemed to be emanating from his pores. The man was absolutely disgusting. He stood up and leered blearily at me. "Hey, hot thing!" the drunk slurred. And then he said something so crass that it even surprised _me_, which is truly saying something.

Paul was on the guy so fast that all I saw was a blur. "Apologize to her!" he ground out between gritted teeth. He was so angry that he was shaking. "Say you're sorry right now, or you'll wish that you ever ventured out of your bottle, you piece of shit!"

"Paul!" I yelled, suddenly afraid for the drunk. Paul looked set to commit murder. "He probably doesn't even know what he's saying. Just leave it. I can handle it."

"And just how do you plan on handling this?" he rumbled, giving the guy an extra shake for emphasis.

Who did he think I was? Thumbelina? I wasn't _completely_ helpless. "With my rapier wit, of course," I said with a careless wave of my hand. "Put the bad man _down_, Paul, and let it go."

"I won't!" Paul spat out, never taking his eyes from his wide-eyed victim, who was blinking as if he thought he was dreaming. "Mister, I believe you have something to say to my friend. Now."

"S-s-s-sorry," the lush stammered out. "I didn't mean nothin' by it, honest."

"Yeah, sure," I said, keeping an eye on Paul's shaking form. "Just don't come near me again and we can forget the whole thing." Even though I strongly doubted that the man would remember any of this in the morning.

"No, problem, lady!" Paul let him go with a shove, and the man stumbled away as fast as he could zigzag.

Paul stood still, not looking at me. He was still vibrating, and his hands were clenched into fists. I tried to make light of what had happened, even though my ears were still red from what the drunk had said he'd wanted to do to me. "Holy crap, Paul! Do you want to get arrested for assault? It wasn't _that_ big a deal. It's not the first time somebody's been rude to me, and it won't be the last."

Suddenly he was staring right at me, and his eyes were so intense and so non-gooey that I couldn't move a muscle. "You're wrong, Clara. It's the last time somebody is rude to you while _I'm_ around. I can promise you that!" he growled.

I managed to roll my eyes. "Nobody can make a promise like that. It's like saying you're never going to die."

He came and put his hands on my wheelchair bars, putting his face on my level. I leaned back as much as I could. It felt like his eyes were going to burn me. "I _can_ make a promise like that. And I never break my word, Clara." With that, he wheeled me over to the car, settled me, and proceeded to load the groceries into the backseat. I never even had a chance to respond, which is probably a good thing. My aforementioned sharp wit seemed to have deserted me. What do you even say to something like Paul's vow? How could I even take him seriously? Hardly anyone had ever kept a promise to me in my life. As a response, I rarely made promises to others. I knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of someone's broken word.

We rode back to the house in complete silence. Neither of us even made a motion to turn on the radio. Paul clenched the steering wheel so hard that I heard it start to crack. When he pulled into my driveway, I finally couldn't keep quiet anymore. "Anyway, it's not as if you're bound to protect my honor or anything. I don't even know your last name!" I said in exasperation.

Paul breathed out, and finally his hands unclenched. "It's Lahote," he said simply, and then he helped me get all the groceries into the house.

And to my surprise, I no longer felt uncomfortable when I noticed that his eyes were on me…even if he was still incredibly annoying when he insisted on doing things for me.


	7. In Search of the Truth and Rain Boots

Disclaimer: If I owned any of these characters, I would be beyond filthy rich. Since my account is in the negatives right now, I think it's safe to assume that I don't own anything. So, lawyers, you aren't going to get any richer in suing me. Can't get blood from a turnip, and all that. Besides, I hate lawyers. (Just watch; I'm going to end up marrying one just for that. God has a sense of humor).

AN: Yeah. You are all beyond lucky. Apparently, Clara REALLY wants to talk right now. I had a hard time stopping when I did, but it was getting ridiculous. As you can tell, Clara knows something's up. What is everyone thinking of all this so far? Good job? Needing improvement? Please let me know in review form!

This chapter is dedicated to my faithful reviewer and fanfic penpal, boxofchocolates. I hope you enjoy your hot native guy!

If the rest of you get the chance, go to my sister's profile and read her imprinting story "Invisible Dreamer." The link to her page is on my profile (hopeisabluebird). Her story is currently incomplete. Please join me in bugging her to finish. It's one of my favorite fics EVER. She writes Kim and Jared to perfection.

On with the show!

P.S. Don't look for an update within the next couple of days (unless, of course, I get inspired again). I have some exams to prepare for, not to mention Thanksgiving. But I'll try to post something on Tuesday. It just may not be as long as usual.

Chapter Seven:

In Search of the Truth and the World's Greatest Rain Boots

_I don't need a friend who changes when I change and who nods when I nod; _

_my shadow does that much better._

— _Plutarch_

Conversation was thready at best as Paul hauled my grocery bags into the house and then quietly started to help me put things away. For someone that big, he never seemed to get in my way, nor I in his. We just worked together…in total silence. It was majorly awkward.

When we got done putting away the groceries, Paul casually sat down at the kitchen table and starting reading a newspaper. "Um, so…." I said, confused. What do you do with somebody who has totally gone out of their way to help you, which kind of demands politeness in return, and then refuses to leave? Well, not necessarily refuses. I hadn't _asked_ him to leave…yet. "It's getting late in the day."

Suddenly, I realized that I didn't really want to be alone. My house got too quiet sometimes, and he had helped me a lot today. "Do you want some lunch/dinner? It's the least I can do to thank you for everything you've done today."

Paul had apparently realized that goo-goo eyes were creepy in the worst degree, and had changed over to nonchalance. "Sure," he said, not taking his eyes from the paper. "If it's not too much trouble for you, of course. I'm starving."

I found myself telling the truth. "Nah, it's not any trouble. I've been eating so much at Kim's that I haven't had a chance to even use my kitchen yet. I wanted to make up something that I can use as leftovers this week." I considered my ingredients mentally. "Chili all right with you?"

I could practically see the drool dripping down Paul's chin. "For the record, chili is _always_ all right with me."

"Noted." I went to the shoebox of a pantry off of the kitchen and started gathering my ingredients: canned chili beans, corn, and diced tomatoes. I went to the fridge and pulled out an onion and a package of ground beef. I chopped up some onion, and then I retrieved a frying pan. The gas stovetop was definitely a problem. My family had always had electric ranges. I vaguely remembered seeing a gas stove at my great-grandmother's house when we visited her for Thanksgiving. I wasn't allowed anywhere near it; there was a constant flame going to ignite the gas whenever you needed it. I looked at my stovetop; nope, no flame. I guessed that this was the kind of range that you had to light a match over.

I wheeled over to my junk drawer and pulled out a box of matches. I turned on the eye that I wanted on low. I couldn't hear any gas flowing. I turned it up on high, and finally detected a low hissing sound. I went to light the match, when suddenly a brown, warm hand wrapped around mine and stopped me. "Are you trying to blow us all to kingdom come?" Paul asked, exasperated.

"I've never used a gas stove before! So sue me!" I groused. Yes, folks. Behold: a college graduate that was apparently incapable of lighting a gas stove. I had survived Anatomy and Physiology one _and _two for this?

"Here, let me do it." Paul turned the eye back down to a switch that said "light" (don't ask me how I missed that one) and quickly struck a match. Instantly, eerie blue flames leapt up and started to warm the heating element. "You have to do it fast," he explained. "There's a valve on there that shuts off the gas flow if it doesn't detect a flame. That way, your house won't fill up with gas and explode while you're sleeping."

"That would be a good thing, I suppose," I said as if I were talking to a toddler.

He looked at me in that tickly way again. "A very good thing. I would not personally enjoy scraping liquefied Clara off of the ceiling."

"Yeah. Let's avoid that. Hey, heat up another eye for me. I need to put the other stuff on to cook while I brown the beef." I watched carefully as he got the stove hot for me so that I would be able to do it for myself later. Once it looked like he was done, I pointed firmly back at the table. "Gentleman, to your corner!" Paul waved his arms like Rocky and then went back to reading the paper.

I browned the beef with onions while the other ingredients simmered in a pot. Paul's nose started to twitch as I added the seasoning and a few chopped green peppers. When the beef was ready, I drained out the fat and put the meat in the pot. The whole thing bubbled and popped while I set out plates, bowls, spoons, sour cream, cheese, chips and napkins. I pulled out some tortillas I had warmed in the oven as a final touch. "Okay, it's ready. Help yourself."

Paul didn't have to be told twice. His bowl was soon heaped with chili, and then he added cheese and sour cream until I thought that the whole thing was going to topple over. He put four tortillas on his plate and was back at the table before you could say Jack Robinson. I sighed dramatically. "I hope there's some of that left for my first day at work Monday. I don't want to depend on having time to spare to run over to Kim's."

"Don't worry. The doctor only comes in for three days once a month. He's usually up in the ass-end of nowhere up north. You'll have plenty of time to shut up shop for an hour to get something to eat. Besides, La Push residents are the Pacific version of surfers. We're not exactly high maintenance."

"I'd noticed that. In Paris, we would have called y'all's attitudes _laissez faire._"

"Oh, yeah?" Paul said with a wicked grin. "What would you have called me?"

I paused, my spoon halfway to my mouth. "Oh, that's easy. You would have been referred to as _l'enfant terrible_!"

"Hey!" Paul protested. "I'm not sure what that means, but I don't like the sound of it! Besides, you're taking advantage. I took Spanish in high school and college."

Sipping my chili delicately, I replied, "C'est la vie, Monsieur Lahote."

He grumbled, shut up, and got back down to the serious business of inhaling his chili. I decided to stop poking the sleeping bear. "Where did you go to college, anyway?"

He looked up and smirked at my interest. "University of Washington. I needed to stay close to my mom. She's getting older and she's all I have."

I nodded. I knew what that was like. "What was your major?"

"What is this, the third degree?" he protested. I gave him a stern look. His whole wounded pride act wasn't working with me. "I majored in Business Management so that I could run my own carpentry and contracting business. I minored in psychology, though," he smirked. "According to those closest to me, I occasionally have slight anger management issues. I thought psychology might help."

"Well, you know what they say. The people who study psychology are the ones who most desperately need a therapist's help," I quipped. But his remark just reminded of me of what had happened earlier with the drunk in the parking lot. "Seriously, though. What is your childhood trauma? You reacted like that drunk was going to garrote me, when probably the worst he could have done was pee on me. While that would certainly be unpleasant and would result in my slapping him so hard that he would start to see with his ears, it certainly wouldn't be life-threatening."

Paul leaned forward towards me; his meal was utterly forgotten in what I was sure was a move so rare that it might have gone down in the Guinness Book of World Records. "You're new around here. You don't know everyone in La Push, or what they're capable of, Clara. You need to be more careful."

"So you knew that boozer?" I asked, disregarding his warning. "I thought he was just a random wine-o looking to dig his next meal from Kim and Jared's dumpster."

"Well, you thought wrong," he said, his voice carrying the first hint of a bite. "That guy's name is Joshua Uley. He's Sam's father."

I was so shocked that I put my own spoon down. "Sam's _father_? How did a stand-up, family guy like Sam come from…from _that _tub of lard?"

"It really is a wonder of genetics. Thankfully, Sam's mom was mostly okay. In his late teens, he really went through a….well, what we might call a growing experience. It changed him, even though he certainly hadn't been a bad guy before." You could tell how much he respected the Big Kahuna as he shook his head admiringly. "Sam took charge of a lot of the younger guys on the rez, including me. He made sure that we stayed safe, that we went the right way in life. He even put together a community fundraiser so that I could afford to go to school. He married Emily, and he's been the best father to his three kids that I could ever imagine. I don't know where we'd be without Sam."

"So…I'm guessing that Joshua wasn't around when Sam was young, then?" I was trying to figure out the timeline involved in all of this.

"Yeah. Joshua left Sam and his mom when Sam was really young. He'd drift back in every once in a while, mostly when he needed money. Then he disappeared for a long time, ten years, I think. When he came back, he was even worse than before. We finally found out from the chief of police in Forks that he'd been in prison for assault and robbery.

"The tribe has tried to help him. I can't tell you how many jobs he's thrown away, how many nice clothes he's ended up selling so that he can buy more whiskey. We eventually gave up. We leave him alone; aside from making sure he has a square meal whenever he can stop sucking down alcohol long enough to get hungry, of course. In return, he mostly leaves us alone. What happened with you today was really rare. He must have been in rare form. He normally just bounces back and forth between La Push and Forks. Sam and Emily try to feed him and take care of him, but Joshua won't let them do anything."

"That must be really frustrating, especially if Sam's used to taking care of everyone."

Paul nodded. "Yeah, I think it is. Sam can't stand having his own father being his greatest failure, even though nobody else considers it a failure on Sam's part. God knows that the poor guy is shooting blanks at an express train when it comes to dealing with Joshua."

Paul finally had to leave to get back to work. It seemed that he was the main contractor for the La Push and Forks areas. He did everything from small repair jobs to building houses, including, it seemed, all the custom handicapped accessibility work on my own house. I appreciated all the care he put into it; it was the first time I could cook on a stove without worrying about grease popping in my eye. Remember how niceness and sappiness ran in the water supply in La Push? Apparently generosity did too.

I was exhausted after doing all of that grocery shopping and cooking. I'd made up several meals, including freezing some grilled chicken that would be good on salads or tacos later on. I ended up going bed early, around eight. It always stayed so dark in this corner of the country that I never felt weird about going to bed at an absurdly early time.

Because of going to bed early, I followed Ben Franklin's advice and was up at five the next morning. I had a lot of extra time, and I wouldn't be starting work until tomorrow, so I bundled up and headed down to the beach. Quil had been right; the beach wasn't too far away, even though my eyes were streaming tears from the cold wind hitting my face as I worked up a good sweat with my exercise.

The beach was totally deserted. Not even the early morning joggers were out yet (if, of course, La Push residents actually did jog; it somehow didn't seem dignified enough for them). I watched the sun rise on the water, and for the first time in days, if not months, I felt at peace. I always felt small on an ocean, but small in a good way. Not vulnerable, but part of something far greater and more powerful than I was by myself. I wasn't alone, and in that moment of peace, I pulled out a sketch book. I wondered for a minute if I was ready for this, but then my pencil started to lay out lines and dimensions all by itself. I was finally ready to draw a face that had been haunting me for a very, very long time.

I was lost in my pencil and paper, shapes and details emerging with many strokes of the green sketch pencil, the bad lines swiftly deleted by a pink eraser. Kind dark eyes appeared first, then delicate features, pretty thin lips. I was so immersed that I didn't even notice someone coming up beside me.

"Good morning, Mac," Emily said with a pleased smile. I looked up and saw her standing there, trying not to look like she was trying to catch a glimpse of my sketchpad. She was wearing jeans, a red flannel shirt and an insulated green vest. She was carrying a bucket that was covered with a heavy dishtowel in one hand and a shovel in the other. It didn't look like she had been jogging. Score a point for Clara! "What are you doing out here so early?"

I smiled back at her and casually closed my sketchbook. "Good morning, Emily. Couldn't sleep anymore; I'm a morning person anyway. I love the ocean, so it wasn't a big deal to come on out to the beach. I'll probably be out here a lot. It helps me think. You?"

She lifted her bucket, and I heard something hard hitting the sides. "Digging for razor clams; Sam wants us to hold a 'family' dinner tonight, and we thought clam chowder would be a good side dish. It's been hard, but I think I've found enough. You're invited tonight, by the way. I'm sure one of the guys would be thrilled to pick you up. Besides, it would give you a chance to meet my kids, not to mention seeing all the girls again. Claire especially wants to see you."

Wow – a clam bake. Or stew fest; whatever. I'd never been to anything like that. Back home in the South, it was usually barbeque cookouts. "That sounds like a lot of fun, Emily. Thanks. I would love to come, as long as it wouldn't put anybody out."

She snorted. "I highly doubt anything you could do would put us out, Mac. We just want you to get to know everyone, feel more at home."

"You know what's weird, Em?" I said, as I cast a glance at the waves again. "I already feel more at home here than I ever did back in Tennessee. It's like I'm allowed to be myself here, and not what I was raised to be, or even expected to be."

"That tends to happen," Emily said wisely. "I was lucky, though. I didn't have to leave town or the state to finish growing up." She looked at the sun, and I did too. It looked like it was nearly 7:30, even though I had never been very good at guesstimating the time by the sun. "Hey, it's getting on in the morning. You want to go with me to get some breakfast at Kim's? Margot's meeting me there."

"After all the cooking I did yesterday? Count me in," I said immediately, unlocking my wheels. "Did you drive in or walk?"

"Walked. It's not that far and it keeps me in shape," she admitted, patting her flat stomach with the shovel. "Are you okay to go that far?"

"Puh-leeze. Watch my smoke." Unfortunately my bravado wasn't very effective. I had pictured zooming away, leaving an admiring Emily behind me. Instead I bumped and almost tipped over on the pebbly ground. Emily's bird-like laughter followed me.

We met Margot for breakfast, and we laughed and talked for so long that we went through two pots of coffee. I did notice something odd, though. Even when we were talking softly, Jared always seemed to hear what we were saying. He tried to hide it, but I could see his shoulders shaking with laughter if I whispered a joke to Margot or Emily. I didn't say anything about my observation then; it wouldn't have done any good. Jared obviously would hear me.

Emily left her clams in Kim's fridge, and the three of us decided to go shopping. I had mournfully showed them my poor wet feet. Even though they were held off the ground by my footrest, water still got splashed up on me and my feet were blue with cold. I was lucky that I couldn't feel them, but I knew it still wasn't good for me. Kim loaned me some dry socks and then ordered me to immediately go and find some rain boots. Margot and Emily volunteered to drive me to Forks to find something that would keep me from getting pneumonia. We loaded my chair in Margot's Ford Escape; she needed our opinion on some cake tasting for her wedding to Embry in a few weeks. Emily and I sure didn't have a problem helping with that chore!

We stopped and did Margot's errand first. She eventually decided on a strawberry, chocolate and fresh whipped cream cake. I was drooling for more, and I usually wasn't a cake person. Why have cake when you can have cobbler, I ask?

We tried a Payless and a Rack Room shoe store, looking for my perfect rain boots. I truly wasn't trying to be particular, but it appeared that rain boots were the ultimate fashion statement in La Push. I didn't want to wear the same polka dotted ones as everyone else. We finally ended up a Newton's Outfitters, in the hopes that most people wouldn't buy rain boots there. A smiling blonde man greeted us at the door. "Good morning, ladies. I'm Mike. Can I help you?"

"Hey, Mike," I said, liking his friendly smile. "I'm looking for some rain boots. Do you carry them and are they all of the garden green variety?"

Mike laughed. "We started out that way, but my wife finally persuaded me to buy some 'cute' ones for the more fashion conscious woman. Let me show you where they're stocked."

He led us down a few aisles and showed us that an entire wall was taken up with women's rain boots. There were some with peacock feathers, some with chocolates, and even more with butterflies, angels, cats, rabbits, rain drops, smiley faces, buttons. It was insane. "Whoa!" I exclaimed. "Give my compliments to your wife. This is awesome!"

"Thanks. Jess will appreciate that. I'll be sure to tell her." Mike left us to our shopping, undoubtedly relieved to escape Estrogen Station. Once we were alone with the merchandise, Margot, Emily and I got down to business.

Pulling rain boots on unresponsive feet is no joke. While my friends were all too eager to help me out, I knew that I'd need to find a pair that I could get on and off easily by myself. I found that the boots with rounded handholds at the top were the easiest. I had initially decided on buying the pair with the peacock feathers outlined with gold when I just happened to see another pair tucked far away on the bottom shelf out of the corner of my eye. Only somebody at my current eye level would be able to see them. "That's it. Those are the ones," I told Emily and Margot firmly.

The boots were teal blue with deep brown handholds, and they just happened to be my size and slid on my feet easily. Wrapping around the sides, a beautiful silver wolf gazed out seriously. It wasn't howling or anything; just watching. I put on my find and gazed at them admiringly. "What do y'all think? Are they as awesome as I think?"

Margot was suddenly looking busily at the boots in her size, leaving Emily to answer my question, which she did readily. "I love them, Mac. But tell me: why did you pick those boots in particular?" she asked, looking caught between laughter and confusion.

"Well, I've always been a dog person." Margot abruptly turned her back to us in order to slip on a pair of pink boots with fairies on them. I was surprised; she didn't strike me as the fairy princess type at all. She was more of a punk, hard rock, rain-boots-with-skulls-on-them person. "But I've noticed that y'all's reservation seems particularly focused on the mythology behind wolves. I thought that it wouldn't hurt to try and participate in that." It seemed perfectly obvious to me.

"Oh," Emily said. "Then I definitely approve."

It took Margot a long time before she would face us again. It didn't look like she had even noticed what kind of boots she had been trying on, though. She got a look at the Barbie-wannabe fairies, made an awful face, and put them back on the shelf quickly.

We were in the car driving back to La Push before I remembered to ask Emily a question of my own. "Hey, Emily?"

"Yeah?"

"What's Jared's deal? He kept laughing at stuff we said at breakfast, and I _know _he couldn't hear us all the time. It was too noisy in there."

She was quiet for a minute, and looking everywhere but at me. "Well, Jared reads lips. That's how he understood what we were talking about, I guess."

I was silent for the rest of the trip back while the other two chattered about flowers for Margot's wedding. Emily had just bold-faced lied to me. I had been sitting with my side to Jared at breakfast. There was no way in hell that he could have read my lips during the entire meal, and he definitely couldn't have read Margot's. She had had her back to him. I couldn't understand why Emily, of all people, had felt like she needed to tell me a lie over something so simple.

There was something rotten in the state of La Push. Maybe niceness, sappiness and generosity weren't the only things in the water after all.


	8. Not My Party But I'll Kill Paul

Disclaimer: All I own are Clara, her nicknames for the pack, and my own two dogs who are so far away from being wolves that penguins look like eagles in comparison.

AN: I had a devil of a time with this chapter. It got drug out of my consciousness kicking and screaming, but here it is. I hope you all enjoy it. I found that I really had to reconnect with who Paul was, instead of changing him to make things easier on me. Actually, the same went for Clara. Neither of them are always particularly pleasant people. They had gotten just a little too mellow.

This chapter is dedicated to Jea0511, who asked for it so nicely. And to A.E. Hall, because you left me an awesome review and I forgot to reply to it and I'm feeling badly about that now. Same deal with a private message from boxofchocolates96, my favorite correspondent. I'm a bad person.

Thanks to everybody for waiting on my stupid life so that I can update. Applying for a graduate program is not for the faint of heart. You get thirteen pages in apology.

Chapter Eight:

It's Not My Party but I'll Kill Paul if I Want To

_My own suspicion is that the universe is not only queerer than we suppose, _

_but queerer than we can suppose._

— _John B. S. Haldane_

I was still nursing an uneasy feeling as I prepared for Emily and the Big Kahuna's clam bake that night. I did a lot of thinking about the whole situation; I even briefly considered not showing up to the party. I instantly set that option aside; these people were my neighbors, and I was going to need friends, especially if I ended up staying in La Push. And I really, really wanted to stay in La Push. I loved its regal woods, the calming water of the ocean, even the constant rain. I loved the people here, even when they apparently lied to me for no good reason.

It was decided; I would go the party. My suspicions would just have to be put on the backburner. Likely I was imagining the whole thing, anyway, and there was a logical explanation that I just couldn't see yet. Yeah, right.

Rolling to the door of my closet, I pondered what to wear to this shindig. I couldn't imagine it being formal to any degree; I had yet to see any of the guys wear pants, let alone a buttoned down shirt…of course, that brought up the whole question as to how they could manage to wear so little in the cold and wet of Washington State… _Shut it, Clara! Stop looking for mysteries!_

It took me a while, but I finally settled on dark trouser jeans, a black lace camisole, and a cream colored sweater. I added a long, sparkly black necklace, earrings, and a bracelet. I was tempted to wear my new rain boots, but they would spoil the look. So I put on warm, blue fuzzy socks, and then zipped on my black leather boots. Makeup done, slightly heavy on the mascara, and then I put on my dark green coat, purple hat, scarf and fingerless gloves. By the time that was done, my doorbell was ringing.

When I opened the door, I rolled my eyes at Paul grinning down at me. Why was it _always him_? What was he, the welcome wagon from hell? If I didn't know any better, I'd say that the whole rotten group of Quileutes was playing matchmaker. It wasn't cute anymore, especially since all their pants were on fire.

Suddenly, I found myself getting angry, totally forgetting my logical decision earlier to let things go. I had let these people into my life, and no amount of niceness in the water could change the fact that something was wrong. I could handle just about anything: wind, snow and dark of night. The one thing that I absolutely, positively could not stand was being lied to. Well, that and Twizzlers. I felt my face getting hot and my hands getting cold.

"Surprise, surprise," I groused after a long, heavy pause. "Hello, Paul."

He made huge, innocent, Puss-in-Boots-esque eyes, obviously not picking up on my anger. "Why you gotta be so cruel, baby?" he quipped.

"Call me baby again, and I reach for the vice grips," I threatened, my eyes narrowed. "And trust me. You will _not_ like where I put them to good use." I locked my door and rolled forward so fast that Paul yelped and leapt off the ramp so that I wouldn't run over his toes. "Watch your feet," I added helpfully.

Even though he'd landed as gracefully as a cat, I noticed Paul's fingers shaking a little. "What the hell has gotten into you, Clara?" he demanded loudly. "You were being nice to me, and now you act like you can't stand the sight of me."

"Don't be so dramatic. My being nice to you was obviously a hallucination on your part," I retorted. "Might want to stop huffing that wood glue, King Kong."

Now, don't get me wrong. I knew I was being a bitch. I was very, very aware of that fact. Was I sorry about it?

Thinking….

Thinking…

Nope.

"So, are we going to go over to Sam and Emily's, or are we just gonna stand here and become snow sculptures?" Without waiting for a reply, I went over to his car, opened the door, and scooted myself in without help. When I looked over and saw that he was still standing at the doorway dumbfounded, I reached over and honked the horn. That jarred him.

Paul's entire demeanor changed. He suddenly wasn't the salivating golden retriever I'd first met, or the nonchalant guy he'd been in my kitchen. He stalked toward the car, lean and purposeful, like a cheetah that paces around its enclosure in a zoo; you knew that at any moment, it could break into high speed, ready to take down the gazelle it remembered having once chased. For just a second, I was afraid of him, afraid of the raw power that I could see he'd concealed from me up to now, although I was an idiot not to have seen it. Muscles, much?

Remember how I said I was like a puffer fish, blowing myself up huge whenever I felt threatened? Yeah, Madame de Puffer popped out again. When Paul had finished violently throwing my chair into his backseat and climbed in next me, I smirked. "Took you long enough."

Paul closed his eyes for a long moment, obviously trying to keep control of his temper. "Clara," he finally ground out between gritted teeth, his voice dangerously low, "I'm going to ask you again. What's wrong? Did something happen? Because right now? You're being a total bitch, and I'd really like to know what needs to happen to make that stop."

I yawned. "Sorry my personality is grating on your delicate sensibilities, Paulina. I'll be sure not to snap your bra strap in front of the football team anymore."

He didn't answer. He just started the car and pulled out of the driveway, even though I could hear the plastic on the steering wheel groaning in protest. For the rest of the drive, neither of us said a thing. I briefly considered trying to find a Justin Bieber song on the radio to further piss him off, but I figured that would be cruel, even for me.

When we arrived at Sam and Emily's house, Paul was out the door before the car was even fully in park. He strode off to the house without a backward glance. I glared at him. He'd just left me here, with my chair in the backseat! Who _did_ that? I was trying to figure out how to get into my chair when Seth appeared in front of me. "Jesus, Mac," he said, his eyes wide. "What did you _do_ to Paul?"

"I may have offended him when I called him a girl," I mused, tapping my chin. "Or when I told him he was slow. Come to think of it, his temper tantrum just _may_ have been set off because I threatened his penis with some vice grips earlier. Or something like that."

Clearwater's jaw dropped. "Are you serious? What did he do to you to deserve all that?"

"Absolutely nothing other than stalking me," I growled. "Now, are you going to help me out of this car or not?"

"Don't do it, Seth!" I heard Paul shout from where he stood in the doorway. "Keep her there while I find some holy water and a Bible for the exorcism!"

I was faintly flattered. Nobody had ever suggested that I was of the devil before. My Baptist grandmother would be so impressed. "Go put on a cup, Paulina!" I screamed back. "You're gonna need it in about five seconds!"

Seth ignored us both while he helped me out of the car and into my chair, even though he kept casting nervous glances back and forth between the house and me. "All the girls are here already," he said in an obvious attempt to distract me. "There are even a few you haven't met yet. That'll be fun."

Sure enough, when I got inside, I saw a strange girl standing by a guy I hadn't met yet. "That's Collin and Adrian, Mac," he said, pointing to yet another tall, muscled native guy and the pretty blonde with him. "He couldn't help us move you in because he goes to school in Seattle. He gets to come home on weekends, though. Collin, Adrian, this is Clara McLeod, although we all call her Mac. She's the new nurse."

Collin smiled at me, his eyes twinkling. "We're glad to have you, although from what I've seen of Paul, your bedside manner could use some work. Nice to meet you, Mac."

I shook his hand. "Nice to meet you too, Collin. And," I made a big show of looking around, "I don't see any beds around here, do you?"

"Too bad there aren't," he said, giving Adrian a significant glance.

She slapped his arm in response. "Down, hound dog. Go watch football with all the rest of the heathens. Mac and I will see if the others need any help in the kitchen. That all right with you, Mac?"

"Absolutely," I said, admiring her easy handling of somebody that was easily two feet taller than she was. "See you, Hound Dog."

The next hour went smoothly – deceptively smoothly. Since I couldn't reach any of Emily's counters, she put me at the table peeling potatoes. It wasn't one of my favorite chores, but I did want to contribute. She was nice enough to have me, after all, even though I was systematically destroying the self-respect of one of her husband's best friends.

There was a companionable feeling in the kitchen. Emily had Corinne Bailey Rae playing softly in the background as she put together casseroles with all the expertise of Emeril. Margot was handling the clams, while Annie chopped vegetables for a salad the size of Texas, and Kim was making pies with Adrian's help. Claire was in charge of setting out plates, utensils, serving dishes, and putting ice in glasses. Lucy, who I learned was the fiancée of yet another guy named Arnie, and Sasha, Brady's wife, were shuttling dishes in and out of the oven and heating rolls in the toaster oven. It was like being in the Borg; everyone had a job and performed it efficiently. I was in awe. Maybe Sam wasn't the only one who had been a drill sergeant in a previous life. Emily seemed to have the same skills.

Finally, everything was ready, and Claire was sent off to inform the guys. Margot handed me a plate before Claire got back. "We don't wait for the guys before we serve ourselves," she explained. "Otherwise, we'd never get a bite to call our own."

I laughed. "Trust me; I've already experienced that phenomenon."

I had a problem, though. There was too much food for it to all be on the table, so it was spread out all over the counters and stove top. There was no way I'd be able to serve myself. It wasn't Emily's fault. This obviously wasn't something she was used to having to think about. I sat there and simmered for a minute, even though I didn't betray by my expression that I was upset. I could reach the things that were on the edges. I'd just have to make do. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

Suddenly, Paul appeared beside me. He had obviously calmed down. His hands were steady and his face was its normal tan shade. "What did you want to eat?" he asked as he took my plate from me.

I gaped at him. He'd already appraised the situation? It was…thoughtful of him. But it was also annoying. I didn't want to be served like a child at a grown-up restaurant. I tried to squash down my automatic reply (something to the effect of, "I think I'll just eat your balls because you're so whipped") and huffed. "I guess just a small spoonful of everything." I would n_ot_ say thank you. I wouldn't, I wouldn't, I wouldn't… "Thanks," I spit out. Damn my Southern upbringing! Why couldn't I just be rude? I could practically see my mother giving me the Glare in response.

"No problem." He walked away, and I rubbed my neck. It was hard to look him in the face. Why did he have to be so freakishly tall? Yet another thing about him that drove me nuts.

When he had filled my plate, he brought it back to me and sat down beside me. I glared at him, even while I was noticing how carefully he had prepared my meal. There was a small, exact spoonful of every dish. What was more, none of the food was touching each other. I hated food contamination with a vengeance. I looked over and saw that he obviously had the same neuroses, even though his portion sizes required three plates to hold it all. I rolled my eyes. When he was forty, that metabolism was going to slow down. I smiled, picturing Paul with a paunchy stomach, and ate my dinner, thankful that he didn't try to make conversation with me. Instead, I talked with the girls about Margot's wedding.

To my surprise, Paul never showed signs of being bored, or of wanting to leave the table and join the few of the guys that had managed to peel themselves away from the woman in order to keep on watching football in the living room. They were yelling loud enough to shake the house, but none of the women even seemed to notice. They just went on sedately discussing place settings and decorations as if they were merely having a cup of tea together.

After dinner, Emily ordered all the men to wash the mountain of dishes we'd created during our cooking marathon. There were groans galore, but eventually they got their tails in there and got the water going. The ladies all went to the now deserted living room and the conversation moved to the subject of "DJ: trite or necessary?"

In the middle of that pithy discussion, Margot suddenly squealed, surprising Sasha enough that she dropped her (fortunately empty) cup. "Girls! I have to show you what Embry and I have learned in class for the wedding! Embry! Come here!"

I heard what sounded like a head hitting a countertop repeatedly coming from the kitchen before Embry appeared in the doorway. "Margot, honey, please, please, please don't make me do this," he begged pitifully. "The guys will never stop giving me hell over it."

Margot remained unmoved. "Get your butt over here, Embry Call, and stop pouting. This is going to blow everybody away." She got something from her purse and moved to the DVD player connected to the TV. A beautiful song began to come through the speakers. I recognized it to be "Turn to Stone" by Ingrid Michaelson. "This song is going to be our first dance," Margot explained to us with a blush, and Annie and Lucy sighed together. Embry, resigned, stepped up to Margot and took her into his arms. His irritated face smoothed out immediately once they were touching, and then they started to move as one around the living room.

I couldn't take my eyes off of them. It was stupid and cheesy, but it was beautiful. They _loved_ each other. Not what I used to call hormone love, but real, true love. This had nothing to do with neurotransmitters in the brain or false expectations. I had no idea how to explain it, or how I even knew it, but they _saw_ each other. They knew each other's faults and strengths, and they were still in love. My heart clenched, watching as their feet moved in perfect unison, the twirls and dips and spins so free and graceful that it would make any ballroom dancer run away in shame. A small part of my brain wondered how a guy with feet as big as Shaq's could move like that.

The room got wavy through my tears. I tried not to sniff so that I wouldn't tip anybody off to the fact that I was crying. But the snot prevailed, and I had wheeled towards the door as fast as I could before I had to messily wipe my nose. I heard someone call my name, but I was already in the front yard. It wasn't that far from my house. So what if my coat was still on Emily's bed? I would stay warm enough from the exertion of pushing myself home.

My chair suddenly stopped, and I gasped as I almost fell out, but was saved by my seat belt. "Hey! Are you _trying_ to rupture my spleen?" I screeched, knowing already who was behind me. It could only be one person.

"Clara, are you okay?" Paul asked, coming around in front of me. "Why did you leave?"

"Leave me alone, King Kong!" I shouted, embarrassed at having run away like a wuss. I tried to maneuver around him and keep going, but he quickly sidestepped, staying in front of me. "Hey…are you crying?" Paul asked, his face suddenly scrunched up in pain and confusion.

"No, Paul," I said acidly. "I'm not crying. My eyes are just peeing. It's a genetic condition; it happens to McLeods all the time. Now _move_!"

"No," he said, his eyes narrowed. "Not while you're hurting." He knelt down in front of me and put his hands on my armrests like he had in the grocery store parking lot. "What's wrong, Clara? You can talk to me. I won't repeat anything, even though you are the most annoying harpy to ever walk the earth."

I snorted, which just made more tears leak out. "Walk. Yeah. Why don't you just go hang out with your mutant friends, Wolverine, and let me go home?"

For the first time, Paul smiled a little at one of my nicknames. "No. Now talk to me, Clara. I won't let you go until you do."

Let me tell you something: I was cold. I was angry and ashamed and I was pretty sure my nose was running like a tap and that my mascara had smeared enough to turn me into a raccoon. Maybe that's what finally made me snap. My head lifted and I let him have it.

"You want me to talk, Paul Lahote? You really, really do? Okay, here it is, uncensored: I'm starting my new job in the morning and I'm pretty sure I'm going to suck at it. I cut my finger peeling all those goddamn potatoes, I miss my van and my dog, my mascara is obviously _not_ waterproof as was advertised, and everybody here is so freakin' nice that I'm sure that I'm never going to fit in long term. And what is it with how tall you guys all are? Seriously? Am I the only one that can only _occasionally_ see faces? I'm starting to be able to identify you all from your legs! And trust me on this: guy leg hair is not something I usually want to look too closely at. Why don't any of you have the consideration to just be short?"

The words poured out. I tried to stop them, but suddenly it was just such a relief to let it all out that I couldn't stop.

"I am, as you said, the worst harpy on the planet and usually I'm fine with that, Paul. But not right now. Not when I'm surrounded by all this love and acceptance and _niceness_ when I know that I will never dance at my wedding. Not when I like everybody a lot here, but I know that something is wrong. There's a piece of information missing from this reservation and it's driving me crazy that I can't figure out what it is.

"And then, oh, boy! Then there's _you_!" A little hysterical laugh thrust its way out of my throat. "You're just a big ole steamin' pile of a problem. You, who go from being the biggest, soppiest excuse of a guy I've ever met one day, and then the next you're this protective he-man that is all about taking care of me, and then the next you leave me stranded in your car! You've got me so off-balance that I don't know which end is up anymore, and trust me, that's saying something epic! And now I'm so angry that I'm telling you all this that I just want to throw a rock through your car window and then possibly slit your throat so that you can never tell anyone that I broke down and cried like an _idiot_.

"_That's_ why I'm crying. Now let me go and allow me to keep whatever shred of dignity I've got left, for God's sake!"

Paul had stayed crouched in front of me quietly during my whole diatribe. He hadn't moved a muscle. But when I finally stopped and was sobbing so hard that I thought I would lose my dinner, he moved. Suddenly I was wrapped up in the warmest embrace I'd ever experienced. I wasn't cold anymore. I was enfolded in softness and warmth and acceptance.

"Why didn't you just say so when I asked you what was wrong back at your house?" he whispered in my ear. "You could have saved us a lot of aggravation." I couldn't answer. I was still crying too hard. "Now that you're finally quiet, let me tell you something, Clara McLeod," he said firmly. "You will always be accepted here. You may be a harpy, but that's only every once in a while. Usually you're fun and witty and a killer cook and you say 'y'all' for crying out loud. Who else does that?" I giggled a little through the sobs. "Even the harpy stuff is okay with us, because it just means that you're strong. You know how to fight for yourself and how to protect the very few people that you give a damn for. I also know that you are going to be the best nurse we've ever had. You are a member of this community now, and we take care of our own. You know why? Because we trust you, and we know that you'll take care of us in return."

I kept crying for a long time. All the while, Paul held me and gave me the solutions to all my problems. I was welcome to slap him upside the head whenever he pissed me off, we'd have my van shipped here and we would sue the mascara company for a billion dollars for false advertisement. He'd make all the other guys start leaning over so that I didn't have to count their leg hairs. If anybody was ever mean to me, he'd make sure the body would never be found.

He told me over and over that everything would be okay, that I was loved and wanted in La Push. The Quileutes would never let me go unless I truly wanted to go. They would never ask me to leave and they would never abandon me.

Finally, I got to the hiccup stage of the typical crying jag. Paul still didn't let me go. "Are you okay now?" he murmured, tucking my hair behind my ear.

"No," I whispered, roughly whipping away my tears.

His nose was right in front of mine. "Why not?"

I buried my face in the crook between his shoulder and neck. "Because now I have to _like_ you, and ain't that just a kick in the head?"

He laughed at that; his chuckle was so deep that I felt it in my chest. "Those are the breaks, I guess. I can't say that I'm particularly upset about it."

"You wouldn't be," I said witheringly. "You don't even have the common decency to stay a jackass."

"Whoever said I was decent?" With that, he kissed my forehead, and I found myself closing my eyes at the warmth of his lips. "Come on, Harpy. Let's get you home."

As he pushed me away, I said numbly, "I probably got tears and mascara all over your shirt. I'm sorry. You must think I'm gross."

"It'll wash out. And you're very much the opposite of gross. Now shut up."

He pushed me back to the house, where everyone was smart enough to not come outside and cluck over me and be all caring and concerned. For the first time, Paul carefully lifted me from my wheelchair and placed me in the passenger seat. I was too tired and weak from my exertions to fight him. He even buckled me in, like I was Princess Diana or something.

Then, I added the cherry on top of the whipped cream of my meltdown.

I fell asleep in the car.


	9. Ding, Dong, the Bitch is Dead Sort Of

Disclaimer: If I owned Twilight, I would have done a better job on picking the music for the movie soundtracks. They're good, don't get me wrong, they're just not what *I* would have picked.

AN: So here you go, a Christmas present! Yay! How was my Christmas, you ask? Why, it was lovely, thank you! My beautiful sister and goofy brother-in-law came home, and it's been SO nice to see them. I hope you all got to be with your families.

This chapter is 15 pages in word. Phew! It marks the turn-around in Clara's thinking, although it won't be an instant change. She knows that she's going to have to start letting some things slide in order to maintain her relationships with the Quileutes. Don't look for an update for the next two weeks. I'm going to be in Florida with my family! So excited! I'll tell you all what the Wizarding World of Harry Potter is like! Squee!

Merry Christmas!

…

Chapter Nine:

Ding-Dong, The Bitch is Dead! … Well, Sort Of.

_All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another._

— _Anatole France_

I woke up with a weak ray of sunshine in my eyes. Like, _directly_ pointed at my eyes. It was this one pathetic little ray that barely deserved to even be called a ray, and it had honed in like a goddamn Vegas spotlight exactly where my eyes were on my pillow. If I had moved even a centimeter in any direction, I wouldn't have woken up at all.

I had never hated sunshine before, but this was definitely pushing it.

Looking over at the clock, I saw that it was barely six in the morning. I didn't have to be in town until eight. Abso-freakin'-tastic. I'd never get back to sleep now. I laid in bed and simmered for a while before I realized why I had been so disoriented in those first seconds of opening my eyes in response to God's little sun joke. I had no recollection of getting in bed. The last thing I remembered was being in Paul's car, sniffly and pitiful. Just the memory of how I'd behaved made my blood boil. I couldn't believe I'd done all that! How big of a pussy was I?

As I lay there, though, I started to view last night objectively. Apparently, I'd really just needed to cry. It was understandable. I made it a point to not cry unless I'd been hit by a car or something. When I allowed myself to be really and truly honest, I knew that it was because I hated to appear any more vulnerable than I already was. I had to compensate for my chair and for my past. But sometimes feelings build up, and they have to find an outlet somehow. Watching Embry and Margot dance had been the buzzer to the Emotion Game Show or the final drop that made the cup overflow. Whatever metaphor fit the best was fine by me.

Paul hadn't seemed to judge me, though. He'd been angrier when I'd had my mask on than when I'd broken down like a pansy. Paul looked like a Man in the most chauvinistic, Neanderthal meaning of the word, but I supposed that he actually did have a soft side. Who would have guessed it? He must have carried me in from the car…wait.

Wait a minute! He hadn't undressed me or anything like that? If he had, I was gonna murder him!

I felt down my legs and discovered that I was fully clothed in my jeans and black lace camisole. He had just taken off the outer layers. Huh. I was usually such a light sleeper; how in God's name had me managed to do all that without waking me up?

It seemed that Paul Lahote was a man of mystery.

When I finally pulled myself enough together to wander into the kitchen to look for food, I was surprised to already smell something cooking. I traced the smell to the oven, which was on low. Inside, a plate of eggs and sausage was waiting for me, warm and looking edible. I looked around and found a note on the table, lying next to a single daisy. I smiled. Daisies were my second favorite flowers. The note said:

_Dear Harpy,_

_Hope you weren't too freaked out to wake up at home with no memory of how you got there. I promise you weren't drugged! I made you breakfast so that you wouldn't be pissy on your first day in the clinic. Try to remember that not everyone can handle your particular kind of defense mechanism in the face of new situations. When you meet people, be sure and say "please," "thank you," and keep the damning of all idiots to hell at a minimum. I would love to meet you for lunch at Kim's; I'll be in-between jobs. See you there at noon if you can make it._

_King Kong_

_P.S. I put my number in your phone. Call me if you need anything, or if you just need to scream for a while. I can tune you out better than most mortals._

I grinned. It looked like I hadn't managed to scare Paul off yet after all. He really had gone beyond the call of duty last night, what with dealing with my emotional wreckage and making sure I got home okay without murdering somebody first. He'd even made me breakfast. Then I spotted another postscript in tiny letters at the bottom of the page:

_P.P.S. Nice bra! ;-)_

Oh, his ass was _so_ nailed to my wall.

…

I tried hard to squelch down nervousness as I wheeled up the ramp to the medical clinic. This was my first big girl job, and all I wanted to do was run screaming into the night. Or wheeling into the night, I guessed. Whatever.

I took a deep breath and muttered my morning prayer under my breath to settle me back down again. I had a thought as I finished, though.

In order to be in this job in this place, in order to reach out to patients and to maintain their trust, I had to change. I couldn't be a Dr. Cox brand smartass all the time and hope to survive on the tribe's goodwill. Eventually, even my services as a nurse wouldn't be enough to have some social capital. If I couldn't have relationships with these people, I wouldn't make it. It was too hard for someone like me to try and go it alone. I had to…ugh…be _nice_.

But, to be perfectly truthful, that would never last for long. Niceness just wasn't me, and if there was one thing I was big on, it was people being true to themselves. Come to think of it, though, Paul had liked me better when I was open with him. Maybe that would be a universal trait.

It was settled, then. Nobody had said I that had to be Mother Theresa, after all. Maybe if I was myself, only without overcompensating and being too snarky, everything would work out. I just couldn't mess with people's minds for the hell of it. This was a little sad for me, I'm sorry to admit. I had liked being bitchy every once in a while and tormenting people. But maybe this would be for the best. Who could tell? Maybe I'd like myself better that way, although to improve on who I was already would definitely be a stretch.

With all that in mind, I eyed the entrance and went forth to conquer. But just as I leaned forward to open the door so that I could shove myself into the building, a pale hand reached out and held the door open for me. "Let me get that for you," a gentle male voice said. "It's a little heavy to hold with only one hand."

"Thanks," I grunted as I bumped over the threshold. I looked up and blinked for a minute at my benefactor. The man who had welcomed me in was beautiful. Now, I know that there's this whole gender-specific thing regarding the uses of the words "beautiful" and "handsome," but this man actually was beautiful. He had shining golden hair, perfect strong cheekbones, and kind brown eyes. No, not brown, I realized as I looked closer. They were golden, too, just a bit darker than his hair. He was unbelievably pale. I sighed as I realized that I was probably looking at my future skin tone. This is what happened when humans never saw the sun! They became Mole People!

I got over my shock quickly though. I'd never really been into blonde guys. Give me tall, dark and rugged men any day over the golden surfer types. Kind of like Paul, just, you know, _not_ Paul. God, did I really just have that thought? Danger, Will Robinson, danger! "Thanks," I said as I offered my hand. "You probably already know, but I'm Clara McLeod, the new nurse."

"So I guessed," the man smiled as he took my hand in his. "The stethoscope around your neck tipped me off." It took me a minute to realize how cold his hand was; I was too busy being blinded by the toothpaste commercial light blinking off of his straight white teeth. "I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen. I come down here once a month to see any serious cases that can't be taken care of in Forks. You'll be on your own much of the time as a consequence, I'm afraid. It'll be a lot of bumps, scrapes, and the sniffles. I hope that's all right with you."

I grinned back at him. "Trust me. I tend to do a lot better when I'm _not_ around people. Or, at very least, a minimum amount of people; less inanimate objects get thrown at skulls that way."

He lifted one of his golden eyebrows at that. _I shall dub thee Dr. Spock_, I thought, repressing a smile. "If you dislike people so much, nursing seems to be an odd career choice, Miss McLeod. Why, then, did you choose it?"

I liked his old world way of talking. It made me feel like I was in a Dickens novel. Ooo, it could be _Bleak House_ and I could pretend to be Esther! Wait, Mac, get back on topic. "That's just one piece of the puzzle, Dr. Cullen. My reasons are my own. What matters in the present is that I work hard, I'm stubborn, and I'm a damn good nurse."

"I'm sure you are, Miss McLeod. The council would not have asked you to come here if it were otherwise," he conceded, his eyes twinkling merrily.

"Please, doctor, call me Clara, or Mac. That's what I've been named by the Quileutes, apparently." Despite the unfortunate fact that Dr. Cullen was blonde, I liked him. I didn't feel an immediate and overwhelming urge to lash him to a rock and summon a sea monster to feast upon his flesh, and that was unusual.

"Very well, Clara. In return, I would be most obliged if you would call me Carlisle. It's much shorter than Dr. Cullen, and I find that I prefer it. After all, we are colleagues."

We really weren't, but it was nice of him to say so. "Sure thing, Carlisle," I replied. "Hey, I love old fashioned names. It's a good thing, too, or else my mother would have been in deep trouble once I figured out how old my name is."

He laughed. "I have a feeling that we are going to get along just fine, Clara. Now, let me give you a tour of the clinic."

I eyed the facilities. "I don't think that will take very long, Doc."

And it didn't. The clinic was very small, having only four small beds and a closet that passed as a waiting room, but it was surprisingly well stocked. It seemed that a lot of the older generation of Quileutes didn't like going to Forks to be treated; they preferred to stay on their own land. They felt protected that way, although I didn't see why. Forks had a police department, after all, which was something I had never seen on the reservation. However, that meant that my clinic would take care of a lot of the local medical needs. I had the supplies to do stitches, wrap up sprains and splint breaks, take x-rays, and treat a wide variety of illnesses. Luckily I was actually a nurse practitioner, which meant that I could write prescriptions and perform small procedures, like EKGs. Any ailment or wound that was bigger than that would have to be handled at the Forks hospital or by Dr. Cullen on the days that he was around.

I learned that he only came to La Push once a month. He was usually in Alaska with his large family; apparently, they had lived in the Forks area a few years ago, and Dr. Cullen felt a desire to repay La Push for some kindness that the tribe had done for him while the Cullens had lived here. He didn't give me much detail, and I didn't ask. Wasn't my place, and the story probably wasn't all that interesting to begin with. Carlisle looked like the sort of person that would turn in a penny to a lost and found rather than simply pocketing it as a sign of good luck. Knowing him, he was giving a lot more time and effort to the La Push people than was necessarily deserved.

Once Carlisle had showed me around and allowed me to familiarize myself with how the equipment worked, he set me to conducting a thorough inventory on the medicine cabinet so that I could see what needed to be ordered or replaced. I could tell that everything had been reorganized so that it was mostly within my reach. Anything that wasn't low enough I could grab with a tool that was propped up against the wall. It was a little claw that could grasp anything in its little pincers and hold until I released a lever. It was a really clever design, and I imagined buying one to have at home. I would finally be able to put books on the top shelf again with something like this!

Come to think of it, the Quileutes' now-familiar generosity was easily seen all over the entire clinic. The beds were low, so that I would easily be able to tend to whoever rested in them. The aisles were wide; I would never have to fear not being able to get into any corner of the room. There was even a desk against a wall that I could roll right up to and make notes. I had a pretty good idea of just which Quileute had made and installed that desk for my use. Too bad he was already destined for the chopping block for his little underwear eye-fest last night.

In very little time, Carlisle and I were working together as easily as if we'd been friends all our lives. We'd turned on a jazz station on the static-ridden radio, and I hummed softly as I sorted and counted medicine bottles and boxes of gauze and bandages. I was surprised when Carlisle started to hum to the radio, too. He had a lovely tenor voice, and it meshed well with my warm alto. We hummed our way through "Making Whoopee" and "La Vie En Rose" (which always made me think of the Audrey Hepburn movie _Sabrina_) when an instrumental arrangement of "Someone to Watch Over Me" came on. Carlisle and I turned towards each other and grinned. "This is my favorite," I admitted to him with a rare blush.

"Then by all means," Carlisle said, leaning back and waving his hand at me like a king to a minstrel, "feel free to sing along. It a favorite of mine as well, and I certainly wouldn't mind hearing your interpretation of it."

I hadn't sung for an audience in a while. I'd always participated in church choirs and I was a member of the chorus at my college, but I hadn't done much soloing. It was weird, but I felt completely accepted by Carlisle. His kindness was practically a third person in the room. Even if I sucked, Carlisle would think it was gorgeous. He hadn't been put off by my personality, and he seemed to like me for me, not just what I put myself off as. So when the right point in the music came, I opened my mouth and sang.

"_There's a saying old, says that love is blind_

_Still we're often told, "seek and ye shall find"_

_So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind_

_Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet_

_He's the big affair I cannot forget_

_Only man I ever think of with regret._

_I'd like to add his initial to my monogram_

_Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?_

_There's a somebody I'm longin' to see_

_I hope that he, turns out to be_

_Someone who'll watch over me_

_I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood_

_I know I could, always be good_

_To one who'll watch over me."_

Suddenly I realized that I had gotten a little loud. I may not have had the use of my legs, but my lungs were perfectly healthy, and I enjoyed using them. Embarrassed at my, um, exuberance, I glanced over at Carlisle, but he didn't look annoyed at all. Instead, his eyes were closed and he was smiling a little, his fingers waving to the music as if he were conducting me. "That was lovely, my dear. You're quite talented," he said, opening his eyes. Any embarrassment I'd felt disappeared when I saw his tender smile.

"Thank you," I said with a wide grin. "I've always enjoyed singing. It's when I'm the happiest."

Carlisle turned the radio down a little and turned back to his paperwork. I thought I'd been dismissed when he said, "What are your other hobbies, Clara?"

Oh, he still wanted to talk. Okay, I could oblige. I considered the question. "Hobbies aside from honing my wit, you mean?" He gave me a look that told me to be serious, so I laughed and added, "I try to sketch, but it rarely comes out as anything recognizable. I read quite a bit. Oh, and I play the piano and sing."

"My wife is an artist," Carlisle said, his eyes lighting up just at the thought of her. "And my son is an extremely talented pianist."

"I'd like to meet them sometime." I could bet his wife was beautiful. Beauty tends to attract beauty, even though I couldn't see Carlisle collecting a blonde trophy wife. However, I would also bet that his kid wasn't all that talented at the piano yet. Carlisle didn't look old enough to have a child over the age of seven or eight. Ten years was pushing it.

"I would like that as well, but I doubt it will happen," he said with a sigh.

"Why not?"

Carlisle gave me a sad smile. "That's a very long story for another time, I'm afraid. Besides, isn't it about time for lunch?"

I glanced at the clock and was amazed at the time. "Oh, no! It's 12:15! Paul's going to kill me!"

"Paul?" I could practically see Carlisle's ears prick up like a dog's would at the sound of the words "treat" or "no." "You mean Paul Lahote?"

"Yeah, that's him," I threw out as I threw on my scarf and hat. "He's been helping me get settled in at La Push, and he asked me to lunch today. This is a good thing, because I'm probably going to stab him with a fork while we eat. Can I bring you anything back from the diner?"

Carlisle's eyes twinkled, even though I didn't think I'd said anything funny. "No, thank you, Clara; I had a big breakfast. I'm not hungry at the moment."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. See you in an hour, Doc!" Without waiting for a reply, I sped out the door. I told myself that I wasn't in a hurry to see Paul or anything. I was just hungry. Starving, even. You'd see my picture up with all the hungry orphans Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were adopting on TV the next time you turned it on.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Stop laughing at me. Let me just continue to delude myself.

When I entered the diner, pretending to be cool, calm, and utterly casual, I saw Paul pacing back and forth in front of a booth. He was wringing his hands, and I could almost imagine him scratching at the ground like a mother hen when her chicks are gone. "Are you that eager to see me?" I questioned as I rolled up to him.

He turned around so fast he was a blur. This guy could have been an athlete. That or a Jedi, which would have been way cooler. "Clara!" he sighed, sounding utterly relieved. "I got worried when you were so late."

I gave him a weird look. "Why would you get worried? It was only fifteen minutes and I was at a medical clinic, for God's sake. There isn't a safer place in the world than that."

"If you only knew," Paul muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." He scooted me to the end of the table. "So how's your first day going so far?"

I grinned. "Great. The clinic is really cute and I have everything I could possibly need. The only thing I couldn't do in that place would be performing brain surgery. The rez did a really great job outfitting the place."

"I'm glad you approve." His voice got cautious, slower. "And you met Dr. Cullen? What did you think of him?"

Did he think I was going to run off with the doc or something? Man, Paul sure had some insecurity issues to work through. Rolling my eyes, I replied, "He's _married_, Lahote. Don't be so nervous. Carlisle's a great guy. I have a feeling I'm going to wish he were here more than he will be. We got along like gangbusters. Come to think of it, maybe I _should _run off with him." I tapped my chin thoughtfully.

He grimaced. "Just keep your distance, Clara."

That touched a nerve. Did he think I shouldn't trust a pale face? Even if it _was_ an exceptionally pale face? Just what did he think _I_ was, anyway? I was only one quarter American Indian, and I didn't even know if he was aware of that fact. I very rarely looked Indian. Did that mean, then, that I couldn't be trusted? But I remembered my overreaction of last night and bit my tongue. I had no intention of making another big emotional scene. "And why should I keep my distance?" I asked sweetly, trying to keep the lasers in my eyes from firing just yet.

"There are just some rumors about him and his family," Paul said carefully. "I'd really rather you kept your eyes open around him for a while."

I was glad I hadn't torn his head off, even though I thought he was being a complete idiot when it came to Carlisle. Dr. Cullen wouldn't hurt a fly; anybody who'd spent three seconds in his company could see that much. "So you wanting me to watch my back has nothing to do with the fact that he isn't an Indian, then?"

He looked me, eyes wide, before he started roaring with laughter. "God, Clara, is that what you thought? I wouldn't care if he was purple with pink polka dots. He's a good doctor, nobody's arguing that. I'm just not too sure about his…choices sometimes. That's all." A wince suddenly crinkled his face. "Oh. I see. You thought I was dissing him because he's white, and I was therefore dissing you, too?"

I nodded. "Admit it. It was a likely conclusion from your getting all hot and bothered just because I got along with my boss for a few hours."

"Wow. I'm amazed that you didn't rip my stomach out and use it as a football," he said, his voice awed. "You mean you actually waited for verification before you jumped to a conclusion?"

I took a delicate sip of water. "It's a new leaf I'm trying. We'll see how long it stays turned over."

Kim walked over as Paul clutched his left arm. "I think I'm dying. Clara's evolving as a human being. Darwin would be thrilled."

Kim flicked Paul's ear when she heard what he said. "Leave Mac alone, Paul. You're such a drama queen sometimes."

"Hey, he gets a few points for accurately portraying one of the common warning signs of a myocardial infarction," I informed my friend. "How are you doing, Kim?"

She blew a dark lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail out of her face. "Eh, mostly all right, although Jared's home with Kenny. He woke up this morning puking his guts out, so I'm all alone until Claire comes to help me after school."

"Oh, righteous, Kim," Paul groaned, putting his head on the table. "Just what I needed to picture right before lunch: a five year old boy upchucking all over the floor where I sometimes sit and walk."

I looked at Paul's head. For once, it was placed at a convenient distance. I reached over and, copying Kim, flicked his ear. He yelped like a sea lion as I scolded, "Be nice, Paul. Kim's right; you really _are_ a drama queen. I asked her a question and she answered honestly. That's more than I can say for a lot of people." Paul rubbed his ear mournfully as I turned back to our hostess. "I'm guessing Kenny's your son?"

Kim smiled and leaned against the table. "Yup. He's our second oldest. We have three kids total at the moment: Cecily, who's eight, Kenny, and Micah. He's three."

Paul checked his watch. "They should be adding another little bundle of joy within the next year."

Kim looked green. "Not if I can help it. I've got more than enough on my plate as it is, and another little monster is all I need. Jared will just have to restrain himself."

I could literally see the sexual innuendo on its way through Paul's brain and heading out of his mouth, so I headed it off at the pass by saying, "_Well_, make sure Kenny doesn't get dehydrated if he keeps vomiting. Call me if you need me, okay?"

She winked. "You got it. So what can I get you guys? Contrary to popular belief, you aren't my only customers. Get a move on!"

I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich with a side salad, and Paul ordered two double bacon cheeseburgers, chili fries, and a chocolate sundae. I felt myself turning every bit as green as Kim had been a minute ago. "You know that kind of meal really is going to give you a heart attack, right?"

Paul gave me an evil smirk. "Don't worry your little medical mind about it, Clara. It's going to be a long time before I die and quit bugging you."

This time I was the one who groaned and put my head on the table. "Can I get a reverse jinx here, God? Something? Anything? A little lightning, maybe?"

Paul's hand made a move to my head, and I expected _my_ ear to get flicked this time. Instead, he tucked a lock of my hair out of my face. "I think God's going to leave me alone. He's figured out that I'm the only one that can make you behave."

"Who likes girls who behave?" I groused sullenly.

"Certainly not me."

"Good. So I don't have to be nice to you, then?" I asked, hopeful.

"Only occasionally. Around my birthday and Christmas, of course. Being nice can sometimes involve things like presents, you know." He nodded sagely.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said as if I really meant it. But as Kim brought out our food and I proceeded to tell Paul just what all that cheese and bacon would do to his arteries, I had a strange feeling that I really would find myself being nice to him, if only _very_ occasionally.

At least until I remembered that he'd copped a look at my bra…

17


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